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LIEDTENANT 


BY 


e 


ts 


BARNABAS 


FRANKgfj 

BARRETT 


AUTHOR OF 

The Great Hesper,” 
Etc., Etc. 


Entered nt the Poet Office, KT. T., u second-class matter. Copyright, 1884, by Joinr W. Lotell Coxrasnr. Issued Tri-Weekly. 

Annual Subscription, 830.00. February 17, 1888. 



New York 

talljN *W* [ov ELL- (o/APANY- ||pl 



14 & 16 VESEY STREET 





“The Diane.” 


Particular attention is invited to 
our new French Corset, “ The Diane,” 
ranging* in price from 81.50 to $5.50 
each. Our customers are cordially 
invited to examine these most excel- 
lent Paris-made Corsets, which com- 
bine new features in style and shape, 
and are absolutely controlled by us 
for the United States. 

James IVBcCreery Co., 

Broadway and 11th Street. 


STUDIES IN ENGLISH SPELLING. 


FIRST LESSON. 

A wealthy young man had a yacht, 
Disfigured with many a spacht, 
SAPOLIO he tried, 

Which, as soon as applied, 
Immediately took out the lacht! 

SECOND LESSON. 

Our girl o’er the housework would sigh, 
Till SAPOLIO I urged her to trigh, 

Now she changes her tune, 

For she's done work at nune, 

Which accounts for the light in her eigh ! 

THIRD LESSON. 

There’s many a domestic embroglio — 

To describe which would need quite a 
foglio, 

Might oft be prevented 
If the housewife consented 
To clean out the house with S APOGLIO! 


FOURTH LESSON. 

Maria’s poor fingers would ache, 

When the housework in hand she would 
tache, 

But her pains were allayed, 

When SAPOLIO’S aid, 

Her labor quite easy did mache! 

FIFTH LESSON. 

We have heard of rme marvelous soap 
Whose worth has exceeded our hoaps, 
But it must be confest, 

That SAPOLIO'S the best 
For with grease spots it easily coaps! 

SIXTH LESSON. 

The wife of a popular colonel 

Whose troubles with “helps” were etoi- 
onel 

Now her leisure enjoys 
For the “ new girl ” employs 
SAPOLIO in housework diolonel! 


LOVELL LIBRARY ADVERTISER. 


1 


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Warerooms, 138 Fifth Ave., N. Y. 

MANUFACTURERS OF 

35,000 THE IN USE. 

HARDMAN 



WITH JUST HIDE 

WE GLASED that it is the only Piano in the world 

which has an iron key frame support. 

WE CLASH that it is the only Piano in the world 
with a patent harp-stop attachment. 

WE CLAIM that it is the only first-class Piano 
sold at an honest price. 

WE CLAIM that for purity of tone and phenomen- 
al durability it cannot be excelled. 

WE CLASSES that it is the only Piano which im- 
proves after two or three years’ use, 
and retains its full power and tone. 


a 


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LOVELL'S LIBRARY'. 


COMPLETE CATALOGUE BY AUTHORS. 

Lovell’s Library now contains the complete writings of most of the best standard 
authors, such as Dickens, Thackeray, Eliot, Carlyle, Ruskin, Scott, Lytton, Black, etc., 
etc. 

Each number is issued in neat 12mo form, and the type will be found larger, and the 
paper better, than in any other cheap series published. 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 

P. O. Box 1992. 14 and 16 Vesey Street, New York. 


BY AUTHOR OF “ ADDIE’S HUS- 
BAND ” 

1106 Jessie 20 

BY G. M. ADAM AND A. E. 
WETHERALD 

846 An Algonquin Maiden 20 

BY MAX ADELER 

295 Random Shots 20 

325 Elbow Room 20 

BY GUSTAVE AIMARD 

560 The Adventurers 10 

567 The Trail-Hunter 10 

673 Pearl of the Andes 10 

1011 Pirates of the Prairies 10 

1021 The Trapper’s Daughter 10 

1032 The Tiger Slayer 10 

1045 Trappers of Arkansas 10 

1052 Border Rifles 10 

1063 The Freebooters 10 

1069 The White Scalper 10 

1071 Cuide of the Desert 10 

1075 The Insurgent Chief 10 

1079 The Flying Horseman 10 

1081 Last of the Ancas 10 

1086 Missouri Outlaws 10 

1089 Prairie Flower 10 

1098 Indian Scout 10 

1101 Stronghand 10 

1103 Bee Hunters 10 

1107 Stoneheart 10 

1112 Queen of the Savannah 10 

1115 The Buccaneer Chief 10 

1118 The Smuggler Hero 10 

1121 The Rebel Chief 10 

BY MRS. ALDERDICE 

346 An Interesting Case 20 

BY MRS. ALEXANDER 

62 The Wooing O’t, 2 Parts, each 15 

99 The Admiral’s Ward 20 

209 The Executor 20 

349 Valerie’s Fate 10 

664 At Bay 10 

746 Beaton’s Bargain 20 

777 A Second Life 20 

799 Maid. Wife, or Widow 10 

840 By Woman’s Wit 20 

995 Which Shall it Be ? 20 

1044 Forging the Fetters 10 

1105 Mona’s Choice 20 


1 


BY HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN 


419 Fairy Tales 20 

BY F. ANSTEY 

30 Vice V ersk ; or, A Lesson to Fathers. . 20 

394 The Giant’s Robe 20 

453 Black Poodle, and Other Tales 20 

616 The Tinted Venus 15 

7.55 A Fallen Idol 20 

BY EDWIN ARNOLD 

436 The Light of Asia 20 

455 Pearls of the Faith 15 

472 Indian Song of Songs 10 

BY T. S. ARTHUR 

496 Woman’s Trials 20 

507 T he T wo Wives 15 

518 Married Life 15 

538 The Ways of Providence 15 

545 Home Scenes . . . ' 15 

554 Stories for Parents 15 

563 Seed-Time and Harvest 15 

568 Words for the Wise 15 

574 Stories for Young Housekeepers 15 

579 Lessons in Life 15 

582 Off-Hand Sketches 15 

585 JTried and Tempted 15 

BY EDWARD AVELING 

1066 An American Journey 30 

BY W. E. AYTOUN 

351 Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers 20 

BY ADAM BADEAU 

756 Conspiracy 25 

BY SIR SAMUEL BAKER 

206 Cast up by the Sea 20 

227 Rifle and Hound in Ceylon 20 

233 Eight Years’ Wandering in Ceylon . . 20 

BY C. W. BALESTIER 

381 A Fair Device 20 

405 Life of J. G. Blaine 20 

BY R. M. BALLANTYNE 

215 The Red Eric 20 

226 The Fire Brigade 20 

239 Erling the Bold 20 

241 Deep Down 20 

BY S. BARING-GOULD 

875 Little Tu’penny 10 

1061 Red Spider 20 


LOVELL’S LIBRARY. 


BY FRANK BARRETT 

1009 The Great Hesper 20 


BY GEORGE MIDDLETON BAYNE 


460 Galaski 20 

BY AUGUST BEBEL 

712 Woman 30 

BY MRS. E. BEDELL BENJAMIN 

718 Our Roman Palace 20 

1077 Jim, the Parson 20 

BY A. BENRIMO 

470 Vic 15 

BY E. BERGER 

901 Charles Auchester 20 

BY W. BERGSOE 

77 Pillone 15 

BY E. BERTHET 

366 The Sergeant's Legacy 20 

BY WALTER BESANT 

18 They Were Married 10 

103 Let Nothing You Dismay 10 

257 All in a Garden Fair 20 

268 When the Ship Comes Home. ..... .10 

384 Dorothy Foi’ster 20 

699 Self or Bearer 10 

842 The World Went Very Well Then " 20 

847 The Holy Rose 10 

1002 To Call Her Mine 20 

1109 Katharine Regina 20 

BY BJORNSTJERNE BJORNSON 

3 The Happy Boy 10 

4 Arne 1U 


40 

48 

82 

85 

93 

136 

142 

146 

153 

178 

ISO 

182 

184 

188 

213 

216 

217 

218 
225 
232 
456 
584 
678 
958 


BY WILLIAM BLACK 

An Adventure in Thule, etc 

A Princess of Thule 

A Daughter of Heth 

Shandon Bells 

Macleod of Dare 

Yolande 

Strange Adventures of a Phaeton, 

White Wings 

Sunrise, 2 Parts, each 

Madcap Violet 

Kilmeny 

That Beautiful Wretch 

Green Pastures, etc 

In Silk Attire 

The Three Feathers 

Lady Silverdale’s Sweetheart 

The Four MacNicols 

Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M.P 

Oliver Goldsmith 

Monarch of Mincing Lane 

Judith Shakespeare 

Wise Women of Inverness 

White Heather 

Sabina Zembra 


.10 
.20 
.20 
.20 
.20 
.20 
.20 
.20 
.15 
.20 
.20 
, 20 | 
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.20 
.20 S 
.10 ! 
.10 I 
.10 
.10 
.20 
.20 
.10 
.20 
.20 


BY LILLIE D. BLAKE 


105 Woman’s Place To-day 20 

59T Fettered for Life 25 

BY KEMPER BOCOCK 
1078 Tax the Area. 20 i 


BY R. D. BLACKMORE 


851 Lorna Doone, Part I ..20 

851 Lorna Doone, Part II. 20 

936 Maid of Sker 20 

955 Cradock Nowell, Part 1 20 

955 Cradock Nowell, Part II 20 

901 Springhaven 20 

1034 Mary Anerley 20 

1035 Alice Lorraine 20 

1036 Cristowell 20 

1037 Clara Vaughan 20 

1038 Cripps the Carrier 20 

1039 Remarkable History of Sir Thos. 

Upmore 20 

1040 Erema ; or, My Father’s Sin 20 

BY RHODA BROUGHTON 

23 Second Thoughts 20 

230 Belinda 20 

781 Betty’s Visions 1 5 

841 Dr. Cupid 20 

1022 Good-Bye, Sweetheart 20 

1023 Rod as a Rose is She 20 

1024 Cometh up as a Flower 20 

1025 Not Wisely but too Well 20 

1026 Nancy 20 

1027 Joan 20 

BY ANNIE BRADSHAW 

716 A Crimson Stain 20 

BY CHARLOTTE BREMER 

448 Life of Fredrika Bremer 20 

BY CHARLOTTE BRONTE 

74 Jane Eyre 20 

897 Shirley 20 

BY MISS M. E. BRADDON 

88 The Golden Calt 2C 

104 Lady Audley’s Secret 20 

214 Phantom Fortune 20 

266 Under the Red Flag 10 

44 4 An Ishmaelite 20 

555 Aurora Floyd 20 

5S8 To the Bitter End 20 

596 Dead Sea Fruit 20 

698 The Mistletoe Bough 20 

766 Vixen 20 

783 The Octoroon 20 

814 Mohawks. 20 

868 One Thing Needful 20 

869 Barbara; or, Splendid Misery 20 

870 John March mont’s Legacy 20 

871 Joshua Haggard’s Daughter 20 

872 Taken at the Flood 20 

S73 Asphodel 20 

877 The Doctor’s Wife 20 

878 Only a Clod 20 

879 Sir Jasper’s Tenant 20 

880 Lady’s Mile 20 

881 Birds of Prey 20 

882 Charlotte’s Inheritance 20 

883 Rupert Godwin 20 

886 Strangers and Pilgrims 20 

887 A Strange World 20 

888 Mount Royal 20 

889 Just As I Am 20 

890 Dead Men’s Shoes 20 

892 Hostages to Fortune .20 

893 Fenton’s Quest 20 

894 The Cloven Foot 20 


lovell’s library. 


BY ELIZABETH BARRETT 


BROWNING 

421 Aurora Leigh 20 

479 Poems 35 

BY ROBERT BROWNING 

552 Selections from Poetical Works 20 

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 

443 Poems 20 

BY ROBERT BUCHANAN 

318 The New Abelard 20 

690 The Master of the Mine 10 

BY JOHN BUNYAN 

200 The Pilgrim’s Progress 20 

BY ROBERT BURNS 

430 Poems 20 

BY REV. JAS. S. BUSH 

113 More Words about the Bible 20 

BY E. LA8SETER BYNNER 

100 Nimport, 2 Parts, each 15 

102 Tritons, 2 Parts, each 15 

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL 

526 Poems 20 

BY LEWIS CARROLL 

480 Alice’s Adventures . . 20 

481 Through the Looking-Glass 20 

BY THOMAS CARLYLE 

4S6 History of French Revolution, 2 

Parts, each 25 

494 Past and Present 20 

500 The Diamond Necklace ; and Mira- 

beau 20 

503 Chartism 20 

6<’8 Sartor Resartus 20 

614 Early Kings of Norway 20 

620 Jean Paul Friedrich Richter 10 

522 Goethe, and Miscellaneous Essays. . . 10 

525 Life of Heyne 15 

52S Voltaire and Novalis 15 

541 Heroes, and Hero-Worship 20 

646 Signs of the Times 15 

550 German Literature 15 

661 Portraits of John Knox 15 

571 Count Cagliostro, etc 15 

678 Frederick the Great, Vol. I 20 

680 “ “ “ Vol. II 20 

691 “ “ “ Vol. Ill 20 

610 « “ “ Vol. IV 20 

619 “ “ “ Vol. V 20 

622 « « “ Vol. VI 20 

626 “ “ “ Vol. VII 20 

628 « “ “ Vol. VIII 20 

630 Life of John Sterling 20 

633 Latter-Day Pamphlets 20 

636 Life of Schiller .20 

643 Oliver Cromwell, Vol. 1 25 i 

646 “ “ Vol. II 25 

649 « “ Vol. Ill 25 1 

652 Characteristics and other Essays. . . 15 
656 Corn Law Rhymes and other Essays. 15 
658 Baillie the Covenante r and other Es- 
says 15 


20S8 Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship, 

2 Parts, each 20 

1090 Wilhelm Meister’s Travels 20 


BY ROSA NOUCHETE CAREY 


660 For Lilias 20 

911 Not Like other Girls 20 

91 2 Robert Ord’s Atonement 20 

959 Wee Wide ...20 

960 Wooed and Married 20 

BY WM. CARLE TON 

1 90 Willy Reilly 20 

820 Shane Fadh’s Wedding 10 

821 Larry McFarland’s Wake 10 

522 The Party Fight and Funeral 10 

823 The Midnight Mass ' 10 

824 Phil Parcel 10 

825 An Irish Oath 10 

826 Going to Maynooth 10 

827 Phelim O’Toole’s Courtship 10 

828 Dominick, the Poor Scholar 10 

829 Neal Malone 10 

BY “ CAVENDISH ” 

422 Cavendish Card Essays 15 

BY CERVANTES 

117 Don Quixote 30 

BY L. W. CIIAMPNEY 

119 Bourbon Lilies 20 

BY VICTOR CHERBULIEZ 

242 Samuel Brohl & Co 20 

BY REV. JAS. FREEMAN CLARK 

167 Anti-Slavery Days 20 

BY CRISTABEL R. COLERIDGE 

1028 A Near Relation 20 

BY S. T. COLERIDGE 

523 Poems 30 

BY J. EENIMORE COOPER 

6 The Last of the Mohicans 20 

53 The Spy 20 

365 The Pathfinder 20 

378 Homeward Bound 20 

441 Home as Found 20 

463 The Deerslayer 30 

467 The Prairie 20 

471 The Pioneer 25 

484 The Two Admirals 20 

4S8 The Water- Witch 20 

491 The Red Rover 20 

501 The Pilot 20 

506 Wing and Wing 20 

512 Wyandotte 20 

517 Heidenmauer 20 

519 The Headsman 20 

524 The Bravo 20 

527 Lionel Lincoln 20 

529 Wept of Wish-ton- Wish 20 

532 Afloat and Ashore 20 

539 Miles Wallingford 20 

543 The Monikins 20 

548 Mercedes of Castile , . . . 20 

553 The Sea Lions 20 

559 The Crater 20 

502 Oak Openings 20 

570 Satan stoe 20 

576 The Chain-Bearer 20 

587 Ways of the Hour 20 

601 Precaution 20 

603 Redskins 25 

611 Jack Tier 29 


LOVELL 5 S LIBRARY. 


BY BERTHA M. CLAY 


183 Her Mother’s Sin 20 

277 Dora Thorne. 20 

$87 Beyond Pardon 20 

420 A Broken Wedding-Ring 20 

423 Repented at Leisure 20 

458 Sunshine and Roses 20 

405 The Earl's Atonement 20 

474 A Woman's Temptation 20 

476 Love Works Wonders - „\20 

658 Fair but False 10 

503 Between Two Sins 10 

651 At War with Herself 15 

609 Hilda 10 

6b9 Her Martyrdom 20 

692 Lord Lynn’s Choice 10 

694 The Shadow of a Sin 10 

695 Wedded and Parted 30 

700 In Cupid’s Net 30 

701 Lady Darner’s Secret 20 

718 A Gilded Sin 10 

720 Between Two Loves 20 

727 For Another’s Sin 20 

730 Romance of a Young Girl 20 

733 A Queen Amongst Women 30 

738 A Golden Dawn 10 

739 Like no Other Love 10 

740 A Bitter Atonement 20 

744 Evelyn’s Folly 20 

752 Set in Diamonds 20 

764 A Fair Mystery 20 

800 Thorns and Orange Blossoms 10 

801 Romance of a Black Veil 10 

803 Love's Warfare 10 

804 Madolin’s Lover 20 

806 From Out the Gloom 20 

807 Wiiich Loved Him Best 10 

808 A True Magdalen 20 

809 The Sin of a Lifetime 20 

810 Prince Charlie's Daughter 10 

813 A Golden Heart 10 

812 Wife in Name Only. 20 

815 AW oman’s Error 20 

896 Marjorie 20 

922 A Wilful Maid 20 

923 Lady Castlemaine’s Divorce 20 

926 Claribel's Love Story 20 

928 Thrown on the World 20 

929 Under a Shadow 20 

930 A Straggle for a Ring 20 

932 Hilary's Folly 20 

933 A Haunted Life 20 

934 A Woman's Love Story 20 

969 A Woman's War 20 

984 ’Twixt Smile and Tear 20 

985 Eady Di ma’s Pride 20 

986 Belle of Lynn 20 

988 Marjorie’s Fate 20 

989 Sweet Cymbeline 20 

1007 Redeemed by Love 20 

3012 The Squire's Darling 10 

3013 The Mystcrv of Colde Fell 20 

3030 On Her Wedding Morn 10 

3031 The Shattered Idol 10 

3033 Letty Leigh 10 

1041 The Mystery of the Holly Tree 10 

1042 The Earl’s Error 30 

1043 Arnold’s Promise 10 

1051 An Unnatural Bondage 10 

1064 The Duke’s Secret 20 


BY WILKIE COLLINS 


8 The Moonstone, Part 1 10 

9 The Moonstone, Part II 10 

24 The New Magdalen 20 

87 Heart and Science 20 

418 4k I Say No” 20 

437 Tales of Two Idle Apprentices 15 

683 The Ghost’s Touch 10 

686 My Lady’s Money 10 

722 The Evil Genius 20 

839 The Guilty River 10 

957 The Dead Secret 20 

91)6 The Queen of Hearts 20 

1003 The Haunted Hotel 10 

BY HUGH CONWAY 

429 Called Back 15 

462 Dark Days 15 

612 Carriston’s Gift. 10 

617 Paul Vargas: a Mystery 10 

631 A Family Affair 20 

667 Story of a Sculptor 10 

672 Slings and Arrows 10 

715 A Cardinal Sin 20 

745 Living or Dead 20 

750 Somebody’s Story 10 

968 Bound by a Spell 20 

BY C. H. W. COOK 

1099 The True Solution of the Labor 
Question 10 

BY KINAHAN CORNWALLIS 

409 Adrift with a Vengeance 25 

BY GEORGIANA M. CRAIK 

1006 A Daughter of the People 20 

BY R. CRISWELL 

350 Grandfather Lickshingle 20 

BY R. H. DANA, JR. 

464 Two Years before the Mast 20 

BY DANTE 

345 Dante’s Vision of Hell, Purgatory, 

and Paradise 20 

BY FLORA A. DARLING 

260 Mrs. Darling’s War Letters 20 

BY JOYCE DARRELL 

315 Winifred Power 20 

BY ALPHONSE DAUDET 

478 Tartarin of Tarascon 20 

604 Sidonie 20 

613 Jack 20 

615 The Little Good-for-Nothing 20 

645 The Nabob 25 

BY REV. C. H. DAVIES, D.D. 

453 Mystic London 20 

BY THE DEAN OF ST. PAUL’S 

431 Life of Spenser 10 

BY C. DEBANS 

475 A Sheep in Wolfs Clothing 20 

BY REV. C. F. DEEMS, D.D. 

704 Evolution 20 

BY DANIEL DEFOE 

428 Robinson Crusoe 25 


4 


LOVELL’S LIBRARY 


BY THOS. DE QUINCEY 


90 The Spanish Nun 10 

1070 Confessions of an English Opium 

Eater 20 

BY CARL DETLEF 

29 Irene; or, The Lonely Manor 20 

BY CHARLES DICKENS 

10 Oliver Twist 20 

38 A Tale of Two Cities 20 

75 Child’s History of England 20 

91 Pickwick Papers, 2 Parts, each 20 

140 The Cricket on the Hearth 10 

144 Old Curiosity Shop, 2 Parts, each.. .15 

150 Barnaby Rudge, 2 Parts, each 15 

158 David Copperfield, 2 Parts, each 20 

170 Hard Times 20 

192 Great Expectations 20 

201 Martin Chuzzlewit, 2 Parts, each 20 

210 American Notes 20 

219 Dombey and Son, 2 Parts, each 20 

223 Little Dorrit, 2 Parts, each 20 

228 Our Mutual Friend, 2 Parts, each. . . 20 

231 Nicholas Nickleby, 2 Parts, each 20 

234 Pictures from Italy 15 

237 The Boy at Mugby 10 

244 Bleak House, 2 Parts, each 20 

246 Sketches of the Young Couples 10 

261 Master Humphrey’s Clock 10 

267 The Haunted House, etc 10 

270 The Mudfog Papers, etc 10 

273 Sketches by Boz 20 

274 A Christmas Carol, etc 15 

282 Uncommercial Traveller 20 

288 Somebody’s Luggage, etc 10 

293 The Battle of Life, etc 10 

297 Mystery of Edwin Drood 20 

298 Reprinted Pieces 20 

302 No Thoroughfare 15 

437 Tales of Two Idle Apprentices 10 

BY PROF. BOWDEN 

404 Life of Southey 10 

BY JOHN BRYDEN 

498 Poems 30 

BY THE “DUCHESS” 

58 Portia 20 

76 Molly Bawn 20 

78 Phyllis 20 

86 Monica 10 

90 Mrs. Geoffrey 20 

92 Airy Fairy Lilian 20 

126 Loys, Lord Beresford 20 

132 Moonshine and Marguerites 10 

162 Faith and Unfaith. -..20 

168 Beauty’s Daughters 20 

284 Rossmoyne 20 

451 Doris 20 

477 A Week in Killarney 10 

530 In Durance Vile 10 

618 Dick’s Sweetheart ; or, “ O Tender 

Dolores”. 20 

621 A Maiden all Forlorn 10 

624 A Passive Crime 10 

721 Lady Branksmere 20 

735 A Mental Struggle 20 

737 The Haunted Chamber 10 

792 Her Week’s Amusement 10 

802 Lady Valworth's Diamonds 20 

1065 A Modern Circe 20 

1072 The Duchess 20 


BY F. DU BOISGOBEY 

1018 The Condemned Door 20 

1080 The Blue Veil; or, The Crime of 

the Tower 20 

1120 The Matapan Affair 20 


BY LORD DUFFERIN 

95 Letters from High Latitudes. 20 

BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS, JR. 

992 Camille 10 

BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS 

761 Count of Monte Cristo, Part 1 20 

761 Count of Monte Cristo, Part II 20 

775 The Three Guardsmen 20 

786 Twenty Years After 20 

884 The Son of Monte Cristo, Part I. . . .20 
P84 The Son of Monte Cristo, Part II. . . 20 

885 Monte Cristo and His Wife 20 

891 Countess of Monte Cristo, Parti. ..20 
891 Countess of Monte Cristo, Part II. ..20 
998 Bean Tnncivde 20 

BY MRS. ANNIE EDWARDS 

681 A Girton Girl 20 


BY M. BETKAM-EDWARBS 


203 Disarmed 15 

663 The Flower of Doom 10 

1C05 Next of Kin 20 

BY GEORGE ELIOT 

56 Adam Bede, 2 Parts, each 15 

69 Amos Barton 10 

71 Silas Mar ner 10 

79 Romola, 2 Parts, each 15 

149 Janet’s Repentance 10 

151 Felix nolt 20 

174 Middlemarch, 2 Parts, each 20 

195 Daniel Deronda, 2 Parts, each 20 

202 Theophrastus Such 10 

205 The Spanish Gypsy.and other Poems20 

207 The Mill on the Floss, 2 Parts, each. 15 

208 Brother Jacob, eve 10 

374 Essays, and Leaves from a Note- 

Book 20 


BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON 


373 Essays 20 

ENGLISH MEN OF LETTERS. 
EDITED BY JOHN MORLEY 

348 Bnnyan, by J. A. Froude 10 

407 Burke, by John Morley 10 

334 Burns, by Principal Shairp 10 

347 Byron, by Professor Nichol .10 

413 Chaucer, by Prof. A. W. Ward 10 

424 Cowper, by Goldwin Smith 16 

377 Defoe, by William Minto 10 

383 Gibbon, by J. C. Morrison 10 

225 Goldsmith, by William Black 10 

369 Hume, by Professor Huxley 10 

401 Johnson, by Leslie Slephen 10 

380 Locke, by Thomas Fowler 10 

392 Milton, by Mark Pattison 10 

398 Pope, by Leslie Stephen 10 

364 Scott, by R. H. Hutton 10 

361 Shelley, by J. Symonds 10 

404 Southey, by Professor Dowden . ...10 

431 Spenser, by the Dean of St. Paul’s. . 10 

344 Thackeray, by Anthony Trollope. ..10 

410 Wordsworth, by F. Myers 10 


5 


LOVELL’S LIBRARY, 


BY B. L. FARJEON 

243 Gautran ; or, House of White Shad- 


ows 20 

654 Love’s Harvest 20 

874 Nine of Hearts 20 

BY HARRIET EASLEY 

473 Christmas Stories 20 


BY HENRY GEORGE 

52 Progress and Poverty 20 

390 Land Question 10 

393 Social Problems 20 

796 Property in Land 15 

BY CHARLES GIBBON 

57 The Golden Shaft 20 


BY E. W. FARRAR, D.D. 

1 9 Seekers after God 20 

50 Early Days of Christianity, 2 Parts, 
each 20 

BY GEORGE MANNVILLE FENN 

1004 This Man’s Wife 20 

1060 The Bag of Diamonds 20 

BY OCTAVE FEUILLET 

41 A Marriage in High Life 20 

987 Romance of a Poor Young Man .... 10 

BY MRS. FORRESTER 

760 Fair Women 20 

818 Once Again 20 

843 My Lord and My Lady 20 

844 Dolores 20 

850 My Hero 20 

859 Viva 20 

860 Omnia Vanitas 10 

861 Diana Carew 20 

862 From Olympus to Hades 20 

863 Rhona ....20 

864 Roy and Viola 20 

865 June 20 

866 Mignon 20 

867 A Young Man’s Fancy 20 

BY FRIEDRICH, BARON DE LA 

MOTTE FOUQUE 

711 Undine . 10 

BY THOMAS FOWLER 

380 Life of Locke 10 

BY FRANCESCA 

177 The Story of Ida 10 

BY R. E. FRANCILLON 

319 A Real Queen 20 

856 Golden Bells 10 

BY ALBERT FRANKLYN 

122 Ameline de Bourg 15 

BY L. VIRGINIA FRENCH 

485 My Roses 20 

BY J. A. FROUDE 

348 Life of Bnnyan 10 


BY J. W. VON GOETHE 

342 Goethe's Faust 20 

343 Goethe’s Poom s 20 

1088 Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship, 

2 Parts, each 20 

1090 Wilhelm Meister's Travels 20 

BY NIKOLAI V. GOGOL 

1016 Taras Bulba 20 

EY OLIVER GOLDSMITH 

51 Vicar of Wakefield 10 

362 Plays and Poems 20 

BY MRS. GORE 

89 The Dean’s Daughter 20 

BY JAMES GRANT 

49 The Secret Despatch 20 

BY HENRI GREVILLE 

1C01 Frankley 20 

BY CECIL GRIFFITH 

732 Victory Deane 20 

BY ARTHUR GRIFFITHS 

709 No. 99 10 

THE BROTHERS GRIMM 

221 Fairy Tales. Illustrated 20 

BY LAURENCE GRONLUND 

1096 The Co-operative Commonwealth. .30 

BY LIEUT. J. W. GUNNISON 

440 History of the Mormons 15 

BY F. W. HACKLANDER 

606 Forbidden Fruit 20 

BY ERNST HAECKEL 

97 India and Ceylon 20 

BY H. RIDER HAGGARD 

813 King Solomon’s Mines 20 

848 She 20 

876 The Witch’s Head 20 

900 Jess 20 

941 Dawn.. 20 

1020 Allan Quatermain 20 

1100 Tale of Three Lions 10 

BY A. EGMONT HAKE 


BY EMILE GABORIAU 


114 Monsieur Lecoq, 2 Parts, each 20 

116 The Lerouge Case 20 

120 Other People’s Money. 20 

129 In Peril of His Life 20 

138 The Gilded Clique 20 

155 Mystery of Orcival 20 

161 Promise of Marriage 10 

258 File No 113 20 

1119 The Little Old Man of the Bati- 

gnolles 20 

1123 The Count’s Millions, Part 1 20 

“ “ “ Part II 20 


371 The Story of Chinese Gordon 20 

BY LUDOVIC HALEVY 

15 L’ Abba Constantin 20 

BY THOMAS HARDY 

43 Two on a Tower — ... 20 

157 Romantic Adventures of a Milk- 
maid 10 

749 The Mayor of Casterbridge 20 

956 The Woodlanders 20 

964 Far from the Madding Crowd 20 

BY MARION HARLAND 

107 Housekeeping and Homemaking.. . . 15 


6 


LOVELL’S LIBRARY 


f BY JOHN HARRISON AND M. 


COMPTON 

414 Over the Summer Sea 20 

BY J. B. HARWOOD 

269 One False, both Fail- 20 

BY JOSEPH HATTON 

7 Clytie 20 

137 Cruel London 20 

BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 

370 Twice Told Tales 20 

376 Grandfather’s Chair 20 

BY MARY CECIL HAY 

466 Under the Will 10 

566 The Arundel Motto 20 

590 Old Myddleton’s Money 20 

787 A Wicked Girl 10 

971 Nora's Love Test 20 

972 The Squire’s Legacy 20 

973 Dorothy’s Venture 20 

974 My First Offer 10 

975 Back to the Old Home 10 

976 For Her Dear Sake 20 

977 Hidden Perils 20 

978 Victor and Vanquished 20 

1029 Brenda Yorke 10 

BY MRS. FELICIA HEMANS 

5S3 Poems 30 

BY DAVID J. HILL, LL.D. 

633 Principles and Fallacies of Social- 

ism 15 

BY M. L. HOLBROOK, M.D. 

856 Hygiene of the Brain 25 

BY MRS. M. A. HOLMES 

709 Woman against Woman 20 

743 A Woman’s Vengeance 20 

BY PAXTON HOOD 

73 Life of Cromwell 15 

BY THOMAS HOOD 

611 Poems 3C 

BY HORRY AND WEEMS 

36 Life of Marion 20 

BY ROBERT HOUDIN 

14 The Tricks of the Greeks 20 

BY ADAH M. HOWARD 

970 Against Her Will 20 

993 The Child Wife 10 

BY MARIE HOWLAND 

634 Papa’s Own Girl 30 

BY EDWARD HOWLAND 

742 Soeial Solutions, Part I lu 

747 « “ Part II 10 

753 “ « PartHI 10 

762 “ “ Part IV 10 

765 “ “ Part V 10 

774 “ “ Part VI 10 

778 “ ‘ Part VII 10 

782 “ “ Part VIII 10 

785 “ “ Part IX 10 

788 “ “ Part X 10 

791 “ “ Part XI 10 

795 /« “ Part XII 10 


BY JOHN W. HOYT, LL.D. 


Studies in Civil Service 15 

BY THOMAS HUGHES 

Tom Brown’s School Day* <0 

Tom Brown at Oxford. 2 Parts, each . 15 

BY VICTOR HUGO 

Les Miserables, Tart 1 20 

“ “ Part I r 20 

“ “ Part III 20 

BY STANLEY HUNTLEY 

The Spoopendyke Papers 20 

BY R. H. HUTTON 

Life of Scott 2C 

BY PROF. HUXLEY 

Life of Hume 10 

BY WASHINGTON IRVING 

The Sketch Book 20 

Tales of a Traveller 20 

Life and Voyages of Columbus, 

Part I. 20 

Life and Voyages of Columbus, 

Part II 20 

Abbotsford and Newstead Abbey. . .10 
Knickerbocker History of New York. 20 

The Crayon Papers 20 

The Alhambra 15 

Conquest of Granada 20 

Conquest of Spain 10 

Bracebridge Hall 20 

Salmagundi 20 

Astoria 20 

Spanish Voyages 20 

A Tour on the Prairies 10 

Life of Mahomet, 2 Parts, each 15 

Oliver Goldsmith 20 

Captain Bonneville 20 

Moorish Chronicles 10 

Wolfert’s Roost and Miscellanies .... 10 

BY HARRIET JAY 

The Dark Colleen 20 

BY SAMUEL JOHNSON 

Rasselas 10 

BY MAURICE JOKAI 

A Modern Midas 20 

BY JOHN KEATS 

Poems 25 

BY EDWARD KELLOGG 

Labor and Capital 20 

BY GRACE KENNEDY 

Dunallan, 2 Parts, each 16 

BY JOHN P. KENNEDY 

Horse-Shoe Robinson, 2 Parts, each .15 

BY CHARLES KINGSLEY 

The Hermits 20 

Hypatia, 2 Parts, each 15 

BY HENRY KINGSLEY 

Austin Eliot 20 

The Hillyars and Burtons 20 

Leighton Court 20 

Geoffrey Hamlyn 8® 


535 

61 

186 

784 

784 

784 

109 

364 

369 

147 

198 

199 

224 

236 

249 

263 

272 

279 

281 

290 

299 

301 

305 

308 

310 

311 

314 

321 

17 

44 

754 

531 

111 

106 

67 

39 

64 

726 

728 

731 

736 


7 


LOVELL’S library. 


BY W. H. G. KINGSTON 


254 Peter the Whaler 20 

322 Mark Seaworth 20 

324 Round the World 20 

335 The Young Foresters 20 

337 Saltwater 20 

833 The Midshipman 20 

BY F. KIRBY 

454 The Golden Dog (Le chien cT or) 40 

BY A. LA POINTE 

445 The Rival Doctors 20 

BY MISS MARGARET LEE 

25 Divorce 20 

600 A Brighton Night 20 

725 Dr. Wilmer’s Love 25 

741 Lorimer and Wife 20 

BY VERNON LEE 

797 A Phantom Lover 10 

798 Prince of the Hundred Soups 10 

BY JULES LERMINA 

469 The Chase 20 

BY CHARLES LEVER 

327 Harry Lorrequer 20 

789 Charles O’Malley, 2 Parts, each 20 

794 Tom Burke of Ours, 2 Parts, each . . 20 

BY H. W. LONGFELLOW 

1 Hyperion 20 

2 Outre-Mer 20 

482 Poems 20 

BY SAMUEL LOVER 

163 The Happy Man 10 

719 Rory O’More 20 

849 Handy Andy 20 

BY LORD LYTTON 

11 The Coming Race 10 

12 Leila ...10 

31 Ernest Mai tra vers 20 

32 The Haunted House 10 

45 Alice: A Sequel to Ernest Maltra- 

vers 20 

55 A Strange Story 20 

69 Last Days of Pompeii 20 

81 Zanoni 20 

84 Night and Morning, 2 Parts, each. .15 

117 Paul Clifford 20 

121 Lady of Lyons 10 

128 Money 10 

152 Richelieu 1C 

160 Iiienzi, 2 Parts, each 15 

176 Pelham 20 

204 Eugene Aram 20 

222 The Disowned 20 

240 Kenelm Chillingly 20 

245 What Will He Do with It ? 2 Parts, 

each 20 

247 Devereux 20 

250 The Caxtons, 2 Parts, each 15 

253 Lucretia 20 

255 Last of the Barons, 2 Parts, each ... 15 

259 The Parisians. 2 Parts, each 20 

271 My Novel, 3 Parts, each 20 

276 Harold, 2 Parts, each 15 

289 Godolphin 20 

294 Pilgrims of the Rhine 15 

317 Pausanias 15 


BY COMMANDER LOVETT-CAM- 
ERON. 

817 The Cruise of the Black Prince. . . ,2<t 

BY MRS. H. LOVETT-CAMERON 

927 Pure Gold 20 

BY HENRY W. LUCY 

96 Gideon Fleyce 

BY HENRY C. LUKENS 

131 Jets and Flashes 

BY EDNA LYALL 

962 Knights-Errant 

BY E. LYNN LYNTON 

275 lone Stewart 

BY LORD MACAULAY 


333 Lays of Ancient Rome 20 

BY KATHERINE S- MACQUOID 

898 Joan Wentworth 20 


.20 

.20 

20 

.20 


BY E. MARLITT 

771 The Old Mam’selle’s Secret 20 

1053 Gold Elsie 20 

BY CAPTAIN MARRYAT 

212 The Privateersman 20 


BY FLORENCE MARRYAT. 


903 The Master Passion 20 

904 A Lucky Disappointment 10 

905 Her Lord and Master 20 

906 My Own Child 20 

907 No Intentions 20 

908 Written in Fire 20 

909 A Little Stepson 10 

910 With Cupid’s Eyes 20 

931 Why Not ? 20 

937 My Sister the Actress 20 

938 Captain Norton’s Diary 10 

939 Girls of Feversham 20 

940 The Root of all Evil 20 

912 Facing the Footlights 20 

943 Petronel 20 

944 A Star and a Heart 10 

945 Ange 20 

946 A Harvest of Wild Oats 20 

947 The Poison of Aqis 10 

948 Fair-Haired Alda 20 

949 The Heir Presumptive 20 

950 Under the Lilies and Roses 20 

951 Heart of Jane Warner 20 

952 Love’s Conflict, Parti 20 

952 Love’s Conflict, Part II 20 

953 Phyllida 20 

954 Out of His Reckoning 10 

979 Her World against a Lie 20 

990 Open Sesame 20 

991 Mad Dumaresq 20 

999 Fighting the Air 20 


BY HELEN MATHERS 

165 Eyre’s Acquittal 10 

1046 Cornin’ Thro’ the Rye 20 

1047 Sam’s Sweetheart 20 

1048 Story of a Sin 20 

1049 Cherry Ripe 20 

1050 My Lady Green Sleeves 21 


LOVELL’S LIBRARY. 


BY HARRIET MARTINEAU 

353 Tales of the French Revolution 35 

354 Loom and Lugger 20 

357 Berkeley the Banker 20 

358 Homes Abroad 15 

863 For Each and For All ... 15 

372 Hill and Valley 15 

379 The Charmed Sea 15 

388 Life in the Wilds 15 

395 Sowers not Rea pers 15 

400 Glen of the Echoes 15 

BY A. MATHEY 

46 DukcofKandos 20 

60 The Two Duchesses 20 

BY W. S. MAYO 

70 The Berber 20 

by j. h. McCarthy 

115 An Outline of Irish History 10 

by justin McCarthy, m.p. 

278 Maid of Athens 20 

BY T. L. MEADE 

328 How It All Came Round 20 

BY OWEN MEREDITH 

331 Lucile 20 

BY JOHN MILTON 

389 Paradise Lost 20 

1092 Poems 35 

BY WILLIAM MINTO 

377 Life of Defoe ....10 

BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 

3008 Marrying and Giving in Marriage . .10 

BY SUSANNA MQODIE 

1067 Geoffrey Moncton 30 

1068 Flora Lyndsay 20 

1074 Roughing it in the Bush 20 

1076 Life in the Backwoods 20 

1085 Life in the Clearings 20 

BY THOMAS MOORE 

416 Lalla Rookh 20 

487 Poems 40 

BY JOHN MORLEY 

407 Life of Burke 10 

BY J. C. MORRISON 

383 Life of Gibbon 10 

BY EDWARD H. MOTT 

139 Pike County Folks 20 

BY ALAN MUIR 

312 Golden Girls 20 

BY LOUISA MUHLBACH 

1000 Frederick the Great and his Court. .30 

1014 The Daughter of an Empress 30 

3054 Goethe and Schiller 30 

1091 Queen Hortense 30 

BY MAX MULLER 

130 India: What Can Ii Teach Us?.... 20 

BY MISS MULOCK 

33 John Halifax 20 

435 Miss Tommy 15 

7»1 King Arthur,... 20 


BY DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY 


197 By the Gate of the Sea 15 

758 Cynic Fortune * 10 

1116 One Traveller Returns 20 

BY F. MYERS 

410 Life of Wordsworth 10 


BY FLORENCE NEELY 

564 Hand-Book for the Kitchen 20 

BY REV. R. H. NEWTON 

83 Right and Wrong Uses of the Bible. .20 


BY JOHN NICHOL 

347 Life of Byron 10 

BY JAMES R. NICHOLS, M.D. 

375 Science at Home 20 

BY W. E. NORRIS 

108 No New Thing 20 

592 That Terrible Man 10 

779 My Friend Jim 10 

BY CHRISTOPHER NORTH 

439 Noctes Ambrosianae 30 

BY F. E. M. NOTLEY 

3095 From the Other Side 20 

BY LAURENCE OLIPHANT 

196 Altiora Peto 20 

BY MRS. OLIPHANT 

124 The Ladies Lindores 20 

179 The Little Pilgrim 10 

175 Sir Tom 20 

326 The Wizard’s Son 25 

368 Old Lady Mary 10 

602 Oliver’s Bride 10 

717 A Country Gentleman 20 

831 The Son of his Father .20 

920 John: a Love Story 20 

925 A Poor Gentleman 20 

994 LncyCrofton 10 

BY MAX O’RELL 

336 John Bull and His Island 20 

459 John Bull and His Daughters 20 

BY OUIDA 

312 Wanda, 2 Parts, each 15 

127 Under Two Flags, 2 Parts, each.... 20 

SS7 Princess Napraxine 25 

675 A Rainy June 10 

763 Moths 20 

790 Othmar 20 

805 A House Party 10 

852 Friendship 20 

853 In Maremma 20 

854 Signa 20 

855 Pascarel 20 

BY ALBERT K. OWEN 

655 Integral Co-operation 30 

BY LOUISA PARR 

42 Robin 20 

BY MARK PATTISON 

392 Life of Milton 10 

BY JAMES PAYN 

187 Thicker than Water 20 

330 The Canon’s Ward 20 

659 Luck of the Darrells 20 


9 


LOVELL’S LIBRARY. 


BY HENRY PETERSON 

1015 Pemberton 30 

BY F. C. PHILLIPS 

1082 Strange Adventures of Lucy Smith .20 

1083 As in a Looking Glass 2U 

1084 The Dean and his Daughter 20 

1007 Jack and Three Jills 20 

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE 

403 Poems 20 

42(3 Narrative of A. Gordon Pyin 15 

432 Gold Bug, and Other Tales 15 

438 The Assignation, and Other Tales.. 15 
447 The Murders in the Rue Morgue . . .15 

BY WILLIAM POLE, F.R.S. 


406 The Theory of the Modern Scien- 


tific Game of Whist 15 

BY ALEXANDER POPE 

301 Homers Odyssey 20 

396 Homer’s Iliad 30 

457 Poems 30 

BY JANE PORTER 

189 Scottish Chiefs, Part 1 20 

Scottish Chiefs, Part II 20 

382 Thaddeus of Warsaw 25 

BY C. F. POST AND FRED. C. 
LEUBUCHER 

838 The George-Hewitt Campaign 20 

BY ADELAIDE A. PROCTER 

339 Poems 20 

BY AGNES RAY 

1010 Mrs. Gregory 20 

BY CHARLES READE 

28 Singleheart and Doubleface 10 

415 A Perilous Secret 20 

T59 Foul Play 20 

773 Put Yourself in his Place 20 

913 Griffith Gaunt 20 

914 A Terrible Temptation 20 

915 Very Hard Cash 20 

916 It is Never Too Late to Mend 20 

917 The Knightsbridge Mystery 10 

918 A Woman Hater 20 

919 Readiana 10 

BY REBECCA FERGUS REDD 

16 Freckles 20 

408 The Brierfield Tragedy 20 

BY “ RITA ” 

556 Dame Durden 20 

699 Like Dian’s Kiss 20 

BY SIR H. ROBERTS 

101 Harry Holbrooke 20 

BY A. M. F. ROBINSON 

134 Arden 15 

BY REGINA MARIA ROCHE 

411 Children of the Abbey 30 

ROLLIN’S ANCIENT HISTORY. 

1108 Volume 1 20 

1111 “ II 20 

1114 “ III 20 

1117 “ IV 20 

1122 “ V 20 

1125 “ VI 20 

1128 “ VII 20 

1131 “VIII 20 


BY BLANCHE ROOSEVELT 


837 Marked * ‘ In Haste ” 20 

BY DANTE ROSSETTI 

329 Poems 20 

BY JOHN RUSKIN 

497 Sesame and Lilies 10 

505 Crown of Wild Olives 10 

510 Ethics of the Dust 10 

516 Queen of the Air 10 

521 Seven Lamps of Architecture. 20 

537 Lectures on Architecture and Paint- 
ing 15 

542 Stones of Venice, 3 Vols., each 25 

565 Modern Painters, Vol. I ,20 

572 “ “ Vol. II 20 

577 “ “ Vol. Ill 20 

5S9 “ “ Vol. IV 25 

608 “ “ Vol. V 25 

598 King of the Golden River 10 

623 Unto this Last 10 

627 Munera Pulveris 15 

637 “ A Joy Forever ” 15 

639 The Pleasures of England 10 

642 The Two Paths 20 

644 Lectures on A.rt 15 

647 Aratra Pentelici 15 

650 Time and Tide 15 

663 Mornings in Florence 15 

668 St. Mark’s Rest 15 

670 Deucalion 15 

673 Art of England 15 

676 Eagle’s Nest 15 

679 '* Our Fathers Have Told Us” 15 

682 Proserpina 15 

685 Vald'Amo 15 

688 Love’s Meinie 15 

707 Fors Clavigera, Part 1 30 

708 “ “ Part II 30 

713 “ “ Part III 30 

714 “ “ Part IV 80 

BY MRS. ROWSON 

159 Charlotte Temple 10 

BY W. CLARK RUSSELL 

123 A Sea Queen 20 

399 John Holdsworth 20 

833 A Voyage to the Cape 20 

834 Jack’s Courtship 20 

835 A Sailor’s Sweetheart 20 

836 On the Fo’k’sle Head 20 

997 The Golden Hope 20 

1087 The Frozen Pirate 20 

BY DORA RUSSELL 

816 The Broken Seal 20 

BY GEORGE SAND 

135 The Tower of Percemont 20 

965 The Lilies of Florence 20 

BY J. X. B. SAINTINE 

710 Picciola 10 

BY MRS. W. A. SAVILLE 

27 Social Etiquette 15 

BY DR. E. J. SCHELLHOUS 

1094 The New Republic 30 

BY J. C. F. VON SCHILLER 

341 Schiller’s Poems 20 

BY MICHAEL SCOTT 

171 Tom Cringle’s Log 20 


10 


LOVELL’S LIBRARY 


BY SIR WALTER SCOTT 


145 

Ivanhoe, 2 Parts, each 

...15 

359 

Lady of the Lake, with Notes. . . 

...20 

489 

Bride of Lammermoor 

...20 

490 

Black Dwarf 

...10 

492 

Castle Dangerous 


493 

Legend of Montrose 

The Surgeon’s Daughter 

.. 15 

495 

10 


499 Heart of Mid-Lothian 30 

502 Waverley 20 

504 Fortu nes of Nigel 20 

509 Peveril of the Peak 30 

515 The Pirate 20 

536 Poetical Works 40 

544 Redgauntlet 25 

551 W oodstock 20 

557 Count Robert of Paris 20 

569 The Abbot 20 

575 Quentin Durward 20 

581 The Talisman 20 

586 St. Roman's Well 20 

595 Anne of Geierstein 20 

605 Aunt Margaret’s Mirror 10 

607 Chronicles of the Canongate 15 

609 The Monastery 20 

620 Guy Mannering 20 

625 Kenilworth 25 

629 The Antiquary 20 

632 Rob Roy 20 

635 The Betrothed 20 

638 Pair Maid of Perth 20 

641 Old Mortality 20 

BY EUGENE SCRIBE 

22 Pleurette 20 

BY PRINCIPAL SIIAIRP 

834 Life of Burns 10 

BY MARY W. SHELLEY 

5 Frankenstein 10 

BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

549 Complete Poetical Works 30 

BY S. SHELLEY 

191 The Nantz Family 20 

BY J. H. SHORTHOUSE 

832 Sir Percival 10 

BY EDITH SIMCOX 

513 Men, Women, and Lovers 20 

BY WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 


640 

The Partisan 


648 

Mellichampe 


653 

The Yemassee 


657 

Katherine Walton 

....30 

662 

Southward Ho ! 


671 

The Scout 


674 

The Wigwam and Cabin 


677 

Vasconselos 


680 

Confession 


684 

Woodcraft 


687 

Richard Hurdis 


690 

Guy Rivers 


693 

Border Beagles 


697 

The For a vers 


702 

Chari emont 

..30 

703 

Eutaw 


705 

Beauchampe. 

BY J. P. SIMPSON 

30 

125 

Haunted Hearts , 

BY A. P. SINNETT 


924 

Karma 



BY HAWLEY SMART 

780 Bad to Beat 10 

1103 Saddle and Sabie 20 

BY SAMUEL SMILES 

425 Self-Help 25 

BY A. SMITH 

594 A Summer in Skye 20 

BY GOLDWIN SMITH 

110 False Hopes 15 

424 Life of Cowper 10 

BY J. GREGORY SMITH 

65 Selma 15 

BY S. M. SMUCKER 

218 Life of Webster, 2 Parts, each 15 

BY F. SPIELHAGEN 

449 Quisiana . 20 

BY STARKWEATHER AND 
WILSON 

461 Socialism \ . 10 

BY LESLIE STEPHEN 

396 Life of Pope 10 

401 Life of Johnson 10 

BY STEFNIAK 

173 Underground Russia 20 

BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON! 

767 Kidnapped 20 

768 Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. 

Hyde 10 

769 Prince Otto 10 

770 The Dynamiter 20 

793 New Arabian Nights 20 

819 Treasure Island 20 

921 The Merry Men . . .20 

1102 The Misadventures of John Nich- 
olson.. 10 

BY HE SB A STRETTON 

729 In Prison and Out 20 

BY JULIAN STURGIS 

1062 Dick’s Wandering 20 

BY EUGENE SUE 
772 Mysteries of Paris, 2 Parts, each ... 20 
776 The Wandering Jew, 2 Parts, each .20 

BY DEAN SWIFT 

68 Girll iver’ s Travel s 20 

BY CHAS. ALGERNON SWIN- 
BURNE 

412 Poems 20 

BY J. A. SYMONDS 

361 Life of Shelley 10 

BY H. A. TAINE 

442 Taine's English Literature 40 

BY NIKOLAI V. TCHERNUISH- 
COSKY 

1017 A Vital Question 30 

BY LORD TENNYSON 

446 Poems 40 

BY JUDGE D. P. THOMPSON 

21 The Green Mountain Boys 20 

BY THEODORE TILTON 

94 Tempest Tossed, Part 1 20 

94 Tempest Tossed, Part II 29 


LOVELL S LIBRARY 


BY W. M. THACKERAY 

141 Homy Esmond 20 

143 Denis Duval 20 

148 Catherine 10 

150 Lovel, the Widower 10 

164 Barry Lyndon 20 

172 Vanity Fair 30 

193 History of Pendennis, 2 Parts, each,. 20 

211 The Newcomes, 2 Parts, each 20 

220 Book of Snobs 10 

229 Paris Sketches 20 

235 Ad veil lures of Philip, 2 Parts, each ..15 

238 The Virginians, 2 ^ 'arts, each 20 

252 Critical Reviews, etc 10 

256 Eastern Sketches 10 

262 Fatal boots, etc 10 

264 T he Four G eorges 10 

280 Fitzboodle Papers, etc 10 

283 Roundabout Papers 20 

285 A Legend of the Rhine, etc 10 

286 Cox’s Diary, etc 10 

292 Irish Sketches, etc 20 

296 Men’s Wives 10 

300 Novels by Eminent Hands 10 

303 Character Sketches, etc 10 

304 Christinas Books 20 

306 Ballads 15 

307 Yellowplush Papers 10 

309 Sketches and Travels in London 10 

313 English Humorists 15 

316 Great Iloggnrtv Diamond 10 

320 The Rose and the Ring 10 

BY COUNT LYOF TOLSTOI 

1110 My Husband and 1 10 

1113 Polikouchka 10 

1124 Two Generation:* 10 

BY ANTHONY TROLLOPE 

133 Mr. Scarborough's Family, 2 Parts, 

each 15 

251 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope.20 

344 Life of Thackeray - 10 

367 An Old Man’s Love 15 

BY F- A. TUPPER 

895 Moonshine 20 

BY J. VAN LENNEP 

468 The Count of Talavera 20 

BY JULES VERNE 

34 800 Leagues on the Amazon 10 

35 The Cryptogram 10 

154 Tour of the World in Eighty Days. .20 

166 20,000 Leagues Under the? Sea . . . . 20 

185 The Mysterious Island, 8 Parts, each. 15 

BY QUEEN VICTORIA 
355 More Leaves i rom a Life in the H.gh- 
lands 15 

BY VIRGIL 

540 Poems 25 

BY L. B. WALFORD 

1055 Mr. Smith 20 

1C 56 The History of a Week 10 

1057 The Baby’s Grandmother 20 

1058 Troublesome Daughter 20 

1059 Cousins 20 

BY GEORGE WALKER 

18 The Three Spaniards 20 

BY SAMUEL WARREN 

935 Ten Thousand a Year, Part 1 20 

44 u 44 Tart II 20 

“ “ 44 Part III ....20 


BY PROF. A. W. WARD 

413 Life of Chaucer 16 

BY F. WARDEN 

7b7 Doris’ Fortune 10 

980 At the World’s Mercy 10 

981 The House on the Marsh 20 

982 Deldee 20 

983 A Prince of Darkness 20 

1073 Scheherazade 20 

BY DESHLNR WELCH 

427 Life of Grover Cleveland 20 

BY E. WERNER 

614 At a High Price 20 

734 Vineta 20 

BY MRS- HENRY WOOD 

54 East Lynne 20 

902 The Mystery. 20 

1093 Lady Grace 20 

BY MRS- WHITCHEE 

1 94 Widow Bodott Pa| >ers 20 

BY J- G. WHITTIER 

450 Poems 20 

BY VIOLET WHYTE 

963 Her Johnnie. 20 

BY W. M. WILLIAMS 

80 Science in Short Chapters 20 

BY N- P. WILLIS 

352 Poems 20 

EY C. F. WINGATE 

830 Twilight Club Tracts 20 

BY EDMUND YATES 

723 Running the Gauntlet 20 

724 Broken to Harness 20 

BY CHARLOTTE M. YONGE 

858 A Modern Telemachus 20 

899 Love and Life 20 

BY ERNEST A. YOUNG 

666 Barbara's Rival 20 

691 A Woman’s Honor 20 

MISCELLANEOUS 

26 Life of Washington 20 

37 Paul and Virginia ....10 

47 Baron Munchausen 10 

63 The Vendetta, by Balzac 20 

66 Margaret and her Bridesmaids 20 

72 Queen of the County ..20 

98 The Gypsy Queen 20 

118 A New Lease of Life 20 

169 Beyond the Sunrise 20 

181 Whist, or Bumblepuppy ? ..10 

860 Modern Christianity a Civilized 

Heathenism 15 

265 Plutarch’s Lives, 5 Parts, each 20 

291 Famous Fin ny Fellows 20 

323 Life of Paul Jones 20 

332 Evcrv-Day Cook-Book 20 

340 Clayton’s Bankers 20 

385 Swiss Family Robinson 20 

886 Childhood of the World 10 

397 Arabian Nights* Entertainments. . . .25 
402 How He Reached the White House. 25 

433 Wrecks in the Sea of Life 20 

434 Typhaines Abbey 25 

483 The Child Hunters 15 

857 A Wilful Young Woman 20 

966 The Story of Our Mess 20 

967 The Three Bummers 20 

1019 Socur Louise 20 


12 



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The following have been issued to date. The best works of new fiction 
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1 A Wicked Girl, by M. C. Hay 25 

2 The Moonstone, by Collins 25 

3 Moths, by Ouida 25 

4 Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll, by R. L. 

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6 Peck’s Bad Boy and his Pa, by Geo. 
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6 Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte 25 

7 Peck’s Sunshine, by Geo. W. Peck. .25 

8 Adam Bede, by George Eliot 25 

9 Bill Nye and Boomerang, by Bill 

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10 What Will the World Say ? 25 

11 Lime Kiln Club, by M. Quad 25 

12 She, by H. Rider Haggard 25 

13 Dora Thorne, by B. M. Clay 25 

14 File No. 113, by E. Gaboriau 25 

15 Phyllis, by The Duchess 25 

16 Lady Valworth’s Diamonds, and The 
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IT A House Party, and A Rainy June, 
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18 Set In Diamonds, by B. M. Clay 25 

19 Her Mother’s Sin, by B. M. Clay 25 

20 Other People’s Money, by Gaboriau. 25 

21 Airy Fairy Lilian, by The Duchess.. 25 

22 In Peril of His Life, by Gaboriau 25 

23 The Old Mam’selle's Secret, by E. A. 

Marlitt 25 

24 The Guilty River and The New Mag- 

dalen, by Wilkie Collins 25 

25 John Halifax, by Miss Mulock 25 

26 Marjorie, by B. M. Clay 25 

27 LadyAudley’s Secret, by Braddon. .25 

23 Peck’s Fun, by George W. Peck 25 

29 Thorns and Orange Blossoms, by B. 

M. Clay ... 25 

30 East Lynne, by Mrs. Wood 25 

31 King Solomon’s Mines, by Haggard..25 

32 The Witch’s Head, by Haggard 25 

33 The Master Passion, by Marry at — 25 

34 Je i3, by H. Rider Haggard 25 

35 Molly Bawn, by The Duchess 25 

36 Fair Women, by Mrs. Forrester — 25 

37 The Merry Men, by Stevenson 25 

33 Old Myddleton’s Money, by Hay — 25 

39 Mrs. Geoffrey, by The Duchess 25 

40 Hypatia, by Rev. Charles Kingsley. .25 

41 What Would You Do Love? 25 

42 Eli Perkins, Wit, Humor, and Pathos. 25 

43 Heart and Science, by Collins 25 

44 Baled Hay, by Bill Nye 25 

43 Harry Lorrequer, by Lever 25 

46 Called Back and Dark Days, by Hugh 

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47 Endymion, by Benjamin Disraeli — 25 ! 
43 Claribel s Love Story, by B. M. Clay . 25 I 

49 Forty Liars, by Bill Nye 25 > 

50 Dawn, by II. Rider Haggard 25 

51 Shadow of a Sin, and Wedded and 

Parted, by B. M. Clay ... 25 


52 Wee Wide, by Rosa N. Carey 25 

53 The Dead Secret, by Collins 25 

54 Count of Monte Cristo, by Dumas... 50 

55 The Wandering Jew, by Sue 50 

56 The Mysteries of Paris, by Sue 50 

57 Middlemarch, by George Eliot 50 

5S Scottish Chiefs, by Jane Porter 50 

59 Under Two Flags, by Ouida 50 

60 David Copperfield, by Dickens .... 50 

61 Monsieur Lecoq, by Gaboriau 50 

C2 Springhaven, by R. D. Blackmore.. .25 

63 Speeches of Henry Ward Beecher on 

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64 A Tramp Actor 25 

65 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, by 

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66 Tour of the World in 80 Days, by 

Jules Verne 25 

67 The Golden Hope, by Russell. , 25 

63 Oliver Twist, by Dickens 25 

69 Lovell’s W T him, by Shirley Smith 25 

70 Allan Quatermain, by Haggard.. .25 

71 The Great Hesper, by Frank Barrett. 25 

72 As in a Looking Glass, by F. C. 

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73 This Man’s Wife, by G. M. Fenn 25 

74 Sabina Zcmbra, by Wm. Black 25 

75 The Bag of Diamonds, by G. M. Fenn.25 

76 £10,000, by T. E. Willson 25 

77 Red Spider, by S. Baring-Gould ... .25 

78 On the Scent, by Lady Margaret 

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79 Beforehand, by T. L. Meade 25 

80 The Dean and his Daughter, by the 

author of “As in a Looking Glass.”25 

81 A Modern Circe, by The Duchess — 25 

62 Scheherazade, by Florence Warden. 25 

83 “Tbe Duchess,” by The Duchess. ...25 

84 Peck’s Irish Friend, Phelan 

Geogehan, by Geo. W. Peck 25 

85 Her Desperate Victory, byRayne...25 

86 Strange Adventures of Lucy Smith, 

by F. C. Philips 25 

87 Jessie, by author of “ Addie’s Hus- 

band ” 25 

88 Memories of Men who Saved the 

Union, by Donn Piatt .25 

£9 Dick’s Wandering, by Sturgis 25 

90 Confessions of a Society Man .25 

91 Lady Grace, by Mrs. Henry Wood, 

author of “ East Lynne ” 25 

92 The Frozen Pirate, by Russell 25 

93 Jack and Three Jill3, by Philips ... 25 

94 A Tale of Three Lions, by Haggard. 25 

95 From the Other Side, by Notley 25 

96 Saddle and Sabre, by Hawley Smart . 25 

97 Treasure Island, by R. L. Steven- 

son 25 

98 One Traveller Returns, by D. C. 

Murray 25 

99 Mona’s Choice, by Mrs. Alexander. . 25 


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1064 Tiie Duke's Secret, by B. M. Clay. 20 

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1086 An American Journey, by Aveling.30 
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1069 The White Scalper, by G. Aimard.10 

1070 Confessions of an English Opium 

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1083 As in a Looking Glass, by Philips.20 

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1088 Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship, 

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1101 Stronghand, by Aimard 10 

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1103 Saddle and Sabre, by Hawley 

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1104 Bee Hunters, by Gustave Aimard .10 

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1120 The Matapan Affair, by F. Du 

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1122 Rollins’ Ancient History, Vol. V. . . 20 

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1124 Two Generations, by Count Lyof 

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1125 Rollin's Ancient History, Vol. VI. .20 

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1130 Lieutenant Barnabas, by Barrett . 20 

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LIEUTENANT BARNABAS 


CHAPTER I. 

A ROGUE AND A FOOL. 

A knight-errant and his Squire rode along the Green 
Lanes, Hornsey. The Knight had a face deeply pitted with 
small-pox, a short nose, a square jaw, a straight mouth, high 
cheekbones, large ears, and eyes so close together that, they 
were of necessity unusually small. He wore a mangy beaver 
hat with a military cockade, a bob-wig, a long coat with a 
cape, and a pair of riding-boots. There had been a hard frost 
for four days, nevertheless coat and boots were plentifully 
bespattered with dry mud; and their dilapidation was such 
that they looked better with mud upon them than without. 

He had the facial expression of an old man — a cunning old 
man, who has seen all that there is to be seen of the worst 
side of life ; but he sat in the saddle like a young man, and 
whistled an Irish air with lively turns in a jaunty and youth- 
ful style. 

He whistled, not for want of thought, but because his reflec- 
tions were of a speculative, agreeable sort. 

He was a knight, not in the old chivalric sense, but by 
reason that his life was devoted to adventure. He was not in 
the Green Lanes to redress the wrongs of suffering virtue, to 
help the weak, to relieve the oppressed ; far from it. He had 
no sympathy with virtue ; if he were lucky enough to meet 
with an unprotected lady he would pick her pocket, and if 
anything were to be got out of the weak and the oppressed, 
he would get it. 

The squire was a man of quite a different kind ; a stout 
young fellow of eighteen or twenty, with hair of an honest red, 
and a face turned out of Nature’s simplest mould — a face 
broad and expansive, with no undercut, and which one might 

1 


2 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


model pretty easily by making a few indentations on the surface 
of a round Dutch cheese ; he wore a long livery coat, bound 
boots, and a hat worth, say, about forty of his master’s. The 
horse he bestrode was an excellent animal, whereas the 
knight’s was as sorry a flea-bitten grey as ever shambled along 
the road, and habitually carried his head down in dejection, 
as if looking with sorrow upon the abnormal proportions of 
his knees. 

The squire did not whistle ; indeed he looked as miserable 
as if he were already on the road to Tyburn, and occasionally 
he opened his mouth to let a sigh escape. Beyond the fact 
that he had «vCepted service under the knight, there was no 
point of resemblance between him and the ancient squires. 
He had no reverence for his master, except such as arose 
from fear, and he had no taste for the profession he had 
adopted. The experience of twenty-four hours had com- 
pletely changed the colour of his views, and he heartily 
wished that lie had never been born. He trotted along about 
fifty yards behind his master — a distance he would fain have 
increased but that the knight occasionally turned in his 
saddle to see how he got on, and constantly kept one hand 
under his cloak on his pistol holster. 

They had passed Wood Green, and the grey tower of 
Hornsey Church could be seen above the red-brown branches 
of the intervening trees, when the squire drew up to his 
master, and spoke. 

“ Here be another ’pike, master,” he said. 

“ You may go in front and pay.” 

“ Please, your worship, I can’t.” 

“ What, disobedient already ! Can’t pay — how’s this ? ” 

“ It’s beca’se I haven’t any money, for I spent the last of 
the crown-piece you gave me for myself to pay for your 
honour’s bread and cheese and ale at the 1 J oily Butchers ’; 
and so being, my money’s all gone and I haven’t any left.” 

“ Hum ! Here, take this shilling, pay the toll and keep the 
change.” 

“ It’s something to serve a generous master,” said the squire 
to himself, as he trotted forward to the toll-gate; “that 
makes six shillings he’s given me for myself to-day ; if I had 
not to spend it I should get rich quickly at this rate.” 

“ Is there ever a good inn along this road, where a gentle- 
man can put up for the night ? ” asked the knight of the 
toll-keeper. 

The toll-keeper was a heavy-eyed, phlegmatic man: he 
looked at the knight from head to foot, keeping his hands in 


A KOGUE AND A FOOL 


the pockets of his short apron, and turning over his money 
before he answered. 

“ There’s a house good enough for you about a mile furdei 
on. ‘ The Black Boy/ West Green — keep to your left,” he 
said. 

The knight dug his heels viciously in the ribs of his horse, 
and made a sign to his squire, who stood by the gate waiting 
to take his place in his master’s rear, to come to his side. 

“ We are getting near London, and I don’t know the inns 
hereabouts, so you will have to be careful,” said he. 

“ Yes, your worship.” 

“In the first place, you must drop that habit of addressing 
me as your worship. I have told you my name a dozen times, 
Lieutenant Barnabas Crewe.” 

“ Lieutenant is such a long name to remember ; I could 
think of captain, if it’s all the same to you.” 

“ Captain won’t do. Every rascal on the road calls himself 
captain now. I don’t mind your calling me ‘ your honour.’ ” 

“I can recollect that, beca’se Justice Thornton is always 
called your honour, and I can think of nothing but the bench 
and magistrates since I stole this horse.” 

“Haven’t I told you that you didn’t steal the horse ? The 
horse was given you when you entered Admiral Talbot’s ser- 
vice, and so in leaving it you w r ere justified in taking the 
horse with you. That’s plain, ain’t it ? ” 

“ It would be right enough if everyone looked at the thing 
as generously as your honour ; but you see, all folks haven’t 
got the same way of giving and taking, and if Master Blake 
the steward caught sight of me, I w r ager he’d have me 
hanged for not thinking as he does.” 

“ Well, my lad, just to ease your mind, we’ll change horses 
at once. You can ride my mare with a light heart, for you 
may be certain no one will accuse you of having stolen her. 
It’s as good as giving you ten guineas, it is,” he said, as he 
dismounted and handed the rein over to his servant, “I’ve 
had as much offered for her again and again.” 

“ That makes ten guineas and six shillings in one day,” said 
the squire to himself ; “ why that’s more than some servants 
gets in a year.” 

“ I wonder I didn’t think of that before,” thought Lieu- 
tenant Barnabas. “ He looks more like my servant on the 
old mare, and there’s less chance of his giving me the slip. 
I could run him down in five minutes on this horse.” Turning 
to his servant, he surveyed him with satisfaction, and then 
said : “ And now about your name.” 


1—2 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


4 


“ Tobias Slink, your honour. Toby for short.'* 

“Tobias won’t do. Toby is too familiar. Slink — well, 
there’s a sneaking sort of sound about that, but Slink must do. 
Now, Slink, if any one at the inn we’re going to asks questions 
about me, you must say I am Lieutenant Barnabas Crewe, 
late of the Royal Blues ; that I sold out upon coming into my 
present estate, which is situated in Ireland — Crewe Castle, 
County Cork. No, you’d better say Munster, that’s not so 
well known — that I think of settling in England, and am 
looking about for a suitable seat.” 

“ Your honour had better write that down, for I shall never 
remember it all. I was always back’ard in learning.” 

“ On second thoughts, it would be advisable to give an 
evasive answer.” 

“ What’s that, your honour ! ” 

“ You can give indirect replies — and intimate that I am a 
nobleman wishing to travel incog .” 

“ Incog. Is that in Ireland too, your honour P ” 

“No, fool! Look here; if anyone says to you, ‘Who’s 
your master ? ’ you can answer, ‘ He’s a nobleman travelling in 
disguise, and I can tell you no more than that.’ Now do you 
understand that ? ” 

“ Oh, if it’s only telling lies, I understand well enough.” 

“Very well. Now fall back, for I see the sign-board of 
the inn.” 


CHAPTER II. 

AT THE “BLACK BOY.” 

Lieutenant Barnabas Crewe trotted into the stableyard 
of the “ Black Boy,” followed by his servant, and having seen 
his newly acquired horse well stabled, and given instructions 
to Slink relative to the feed, he cocked his dilapidated beaver 
rakishly over one eye, and marched into the sanded passage of 
the inn, smacking his leg with his riding-whip, and looking 
about him with an assumption of arrogant authority, calcu- 
lated, as he thought, to inspire respect. 

“ Your best room, madam, if you please, and what can I 
have for dinner ? ” he asked, still smacking his boot, and 
looking at the landlady fiercely from under the corner of his 
beaver. 

The hostess, a fat widow, with a healthy face and short 
ringlets projecting from the front of her cap, carefully set her 


AT THE “BLACK BOY.’ 


5 


glasses on her nose, and then looked at her interrogator criti- 
cally before responding. It was annoying to he examined in 
this manner, but Lieutenant Barnabas was accustomed to it. 
Every one looked at him thus before replying to his first 
questions. 

“ Ah ! ” she said, taking off her glasses and putting them in 
her pocket. “ The best room for you is the parlour. And as 
for dinner, there’s no butcher’s meat in the house, so you must 
make shift with eggs and bacon, if you choose to stop here.” 

“ It would seem that you are not in the habit of seeing 
gentlemen at your house, madam.” 

“ Oh, we see as many of your kind as we want, thank you, 
Sir,” replied the hostess, tartly. 

Without replying, the Lieutenant swaggered into the parlour. 
There he stirred the fire, piled more coals on the hack, drew a 
Windsor chair well in front, seated himself, stuck his feet on 
the hobs, and then having with some difficulty determined 
which was the top and which was the bottom of a newspaper, 
pretended to be deeply engrossed in its contents when the 
hostess came in to lay the cloth. 

“ Will your companion dine with you ? ” she asked. 

“ My servant will dine in the kitchen ; and I will trouble 
you to bring candles, and light a fire in your best bedroom.” 

“ Are you going to stay all night ? London is only five 
miles off.” 

“ It pleases me to stay here, madam,” replied Lieutenant 
Barnabas, turning his chair to give his hostess the full benefit 
of his frown. He refolded his paper, still looking at her, then 
returned to a deep study of the news, blessedly unconscious 
that the paper had got upside down. 

11 Hum ! ” murmured the hostess as she left the room. 
“Four o’clock, and bright weather — a strange time for a 
gentleman keeping a servant to put up at a small village inn 
so near London.” 

The old hostler was breaking the ice in the horse-trough in 
front of the house, she opened the half-door and beckoned 
him. 

“ Billy, is the stable closed P ” she asked. 

“ No, marm. Young chap’s a-grooming the hosses down.” 

“ You go round there at once, and when the young man’ 
done, lock the door and bring me the key ; and don’t you let 
those horses be taken out until I tell you the bill’s paid.” 

These words coming to the capacious ears of the studious 
Lieutenant, he snatched his wig off and dashed it on the floor 
with an oath — “ not loud, but deep.” 


6 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


SI Ini groomed liis horses, and forgot his sorrows in the 
pleasure of his occupation. The stolen horse he got away 
from as quickly as possible — it wanted little grooming, and 
despite his master’s assurances, he felt uneasy every time he 
touched the beast ; but the horse that had been presented to 
him required more attention. 

“ It’ll take a sight of brushing to make you look worth ten 
guineas,” he murmured, and then he hissed as grooms do, and 
rubbed the wretched nag with all his strength, until nothing 
more could be done to improve appearances. Afterwards he 
washed himself in a bucket of water, reduced his shock of hair 
to smoothness by means of a wet mane-comb, and betook 
himself to the kitchen, where he sat by the fire-side in his 
shirt sleeves, and gave himself up to silent meditation. The 
kitchen-maid, who was cooking the eggs and bacon, did not 
disturb him — she was deaf and busy ; so he sat there with his 
hands on his knees looking into the fire, where he conjured up 
the saucy face of the girl who had won his heart by her kind- 
ness, and then driven liin r ay from her by cruelty. 

To say that he freque**.^. heaved a sigh would be less 
correct than to say that a sigh frequently heaved him, for on 
these occasions his whole frame expanded, his body rose, the 
gusty sigh came from his parted lips, and then he subsided 
into his normal condition. 

“ What’s the matter, young man — are you hungry P ” asked 
the cook, her attention at length attracted by these signs of 
distress. 

Slink nodded ; the natural cravings of nature were not yet 
removed by love. 

“ Well, you can draw up your chair to the table and begin. 
Your master’s served, and this is for you. There’s a mug of 
beer, and if you want more you can go up to the bar and ask 
for it. I’m going up to light a fire in your master’s bedroom.” 

Slink cut himself a huge slice of bread and attacked the 
food with avidity, and did not pause until he had wiped the 
dish clean with the last crust of his half-quartern loaf ; then 
he turned again to the fire, taking with him his brown mug of 
ale, and resumed his melancholy contemplations, sighing and 
driuking in fitful alternation, until the beer was all gone, when 
he set aside the empty mug, rested his arm against the 
chimney-piece and his face upon that, and gave vent to his 
sorrow in copious tears. He was weeping thus when the 
kitchen-maid returned. 

“ Haven’t you had enough to eat ? ” she asked, in a tone of 
sympathy. 


AT THE “ BLACK BOY.’ 


7 


“ It, isn’t the victuals, it’s my heart/' sohhed Slink. 

The words were indistinct, and she was deaf ; hut she 
divined the cause of his wretchedness accurately enough. For 
what woman needs more explanation than a man carries in his 
face, as to the state of his heart. Love is the study of her life, 
and she detects at a glance the types of its votaries, as a 
naturalist knows by a single bone the physical aspect of the 
creature that possessed it. 

“ Never mind, young man ! ” said she. “It comes to all of 
us, cooks and grooms, just as it comes to lords and ladies, to 
fall in love, and to laugh, and then weep. Dry your eyes, lad, 
and run up-stairs, your master has sent for you.” 

Slink ran up-stairs, rubbing his eyes with his sleeve, and, 
touching his forelock to the hostess, entered the parlour. 

Lieutenant Barnabas had resumed his place before the fire 
— his feet on the hob, his chair tilted back, a long clay pipe in 
his mouth, and his wig over his eyes, so that the tie stood' out 
from the back of his head, exposing the lower part of his 
shaven skull. 

“ Is that you, Slink ? ” he asked, without changing h'is 
position. 

“ Yes, your honour.” Slink was content that his master did 
not see his face. 

“ Open the door sharp, and see if that old cat of a hostess 
has got her ear at the keyhole.” 

“ No one there, your honour,” said Slink, having opened the 
door and looked at the keyhole. 

“ I want you to tell me about your late master, and the 
family, and all that.” 

Slink gasped a sigh. u You want me to tell you why I left 
— and all about Jenny.” 

“Hang Jenny — we had all about her yesterday. I see I 
must cross-question you as if you were in the dock. Now then 
— how long have you been at Talbot Hall P ” 

“ Four years come Christmas, I went ” 

“ Admiral Talbot resided at the Hall, then P " 

“ Him and Mr. Thomas — I was ” 

** Mr. Thomas was the Admiral’s only son P ” 

“ I think so.” 

“ You think so,” — the Lieutenant turned hastily and spoke 
with eagerness. “ Y T ou only think so — why do you think so ? ” 
“ Because he hadn’t got any other.” 
u A fool ! How old was Mr. Thomas Talbot P ” 

“ Never axed him, your honour.” 

“ How old do you think he wa£ ? plague take you.” 


S LIEUTENANT BAENABAS. 

Slink considered for some time, and then said he thought 
about eiglit-and-twenty. 

“ He does not stay at Talbot Hall ?” 

“ No, he is always travelling in foreign parts ; sometimes 
London, sometimes Cambridge, and such like. He comes to 
the Hall for a few days to shoot pheasants and things, and off 
he goes again It was just the same with his father. He’d 
send word a couple of days before maybe to have a couple of 
rooms got ready, and then ” 

“ There was never anyone living constantly in the Hall, 
no women P ” 

“ Oh ! yes, there was.” 

x\gain the Lieutenant turned quickly, saying : 

“You never said a word of that before, what kind of 
woman ? ” 

“ The prettiest that ever lived, and her name is,” — with a 
sigh that made the candles flicker — “ Jenny ! ” 

The Lieutenant bit an inch off his pipe stem and dropped a 
few oaths. 

•“ You told me yesterday that Doctor Blandly came to the 
Hall to tell the steward of Admiral Talbot’s death — when was 
that ? ” 

“ Yesterday.” 

“ I mean, when did Doctor Blandly come to Talbot Hall, 
with that news P ” 

“ Two months ago,” answered Slink, after performing an 
arithmetical calculation with his fingers. 

The Lieutenant finished his pipe without putting further 
questions. 

“ It is something more than a mere coincidence,” he mut- 
tered, as he rose and threw his pipe on the fire. 

“ What did your honour say ? ” asked Slink. 

“ Nothing. You never heard the steward, or the Admiral, 
or Mr. Thomas Talbot, or anyone, ever mention anything about 
the Crewes ? ” 

“I never heard the old Admiral talk about anything 
else.” 

“ What ! ” exclaimed Barnabas, suddenly arresting his hands 
in the act of setting his wig straight. “ You never mentioned 
a word of that, what did he say ? quick ! ” 

“ He said such a lot,” answered Slink, confused by his 
master’s manner, “ sometimes he’d say ‘ we’ve had a plaguey 
had cruise,’ and sometimes he’d say ” 

“ Oh ! go to the . Fetch me my cloak and hat I ” ha 

growled. 


AT THE “BLACK BOY. 


9 


Slink brought the cloak in silence, without attempting to 
fathom his master’s petulance. 

The Lieutenant stood before the glass arranging the ragged 
lace of his cravat, to hide its worst edges and conceal the dirty 
shirt beneath. 

“ Snuff the candle,” he said. u This confounded light makes 
me look as if I’d had a barker blazed in my face.” 

As Slink extended. his hand to take the snuff from the 
candles, the Lieutenant caught sight of his clean stout 
shirt. 

“ That’s a good shirt, Slink,” he said, taking a part of the 
sleeve in his fingers to feel the texture : “ did you buy it 
yourself F ” 

u No, your honour ; shirts was given me with my livery.” 

“ Like the mare, eh ? Ah, Slink, you won’t get the magis- 
trates out of your mind while you wear that 1 ” 

“ I ha’n’t got no other.” 

“ Well, we must arrange that for you, my good fellow ; I 
will give you one of mine — the one I’ve got on my back. You 
leave yours in my room to-night — and those boots, Slink ! ” 

“ They’re just the same as the mare, your honour,” Slink 
whimpered. 

“ Don’t snivel, my lad. Your foot looks about the same 
size as mine, and I’ll give you mine rather than you shall go 
without. Off with them. What, do you wear socks, Slink P 
You will find my boots more comfortable without any, that’s 
why I haven’t worn them, but with yours it will be different. 
Pull them off.” 

** There’s my coat and hat downstairs, perhaps your worship 
wouldn’t mind taking them.” 

il No, Slink; you must wear them yourself ; don’t over-ride 
the willing horse, my man. I’ve given you a horse and the 
best part of a suit of clothes. Don’t ask for more ! ” 

Slink, painfully conscious of his own ingratitude, blushed as 
he helped the Lieutenant put on his coat. 

“ You can sit here in my absence,” said Barnabas, “ and if 
the old woman asks any questions, you know how to answer 
her. You can have whatever you like to call for.” He cocked 
his hat on one side of his head, took his heavy-handled riding- 
whip, and opening the door, added, “ I’m going out for a 
stroll. Pish ! what a stench of stale beer.” Then with a fierce 
glance at the hostess, who was sitting at the door of the bar- 
parlour with her knitting on her lap, he strolled leisurely out 
into the open air. 

u Ah, you wouldn’t go afoot if you could get at your horse, 


10 LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 

JTl warrant,” soliloquised tlie hostess, looking after her ill- 
favoured guest. 

She was quite right in this conjecture. 


CHAPTER in. 

DR. BLANDLY. 

Lieutenant Barnabas lounged along idly until he had 
passed the little general shop which marked the end of the 
village, then he pulled up his collar, set his hat firmly on his 
head, and smartened his pace. Ten minutes brisk walking 
brought him to the end of Black Cap Lane, and into the high 
road opposite the cluster of trees known as the “ seven sisters 
here he turned to the left, and continued his “ stroll,” passing 
Tottenham Cross, Lower Tottenham, and Upper Edmonton 
with undiminished speed until he reached the “ Bell” Inn, 
where he paused to recover his breath and w’ipe the perspira- 
tion from his face. Five minutes later he rang the bell at 
the garden-gate of Dr. Blandly’s house. 

“ No light to be seen,” he muttered, looking over the gate at 
the house which stood back behind a large cedar. “ He can’t 
be in bed yet awhile, it has only just gone seven; yet he’s 
such a queer old put. Ah, thank goodness, there’s a light.” 

A bent old man came from the house, and opening the little 
square door behind a grating let into the gate, peered through. 

“ You needn’t be afraid, Jerry, it’s only your young friend. 
Is your master at home ? ” said the Lieutenant, who spoke 
civilly to no one unless he was obliged. 

“ Ah ! ” grunted Jerry, who evidently recognised the 
speaker, “ if it’s only you, you can wait there while I go and 
see if master be at home.” He closed the grating and walked 
slowly back to the house, chuckling audibly in response to the 
curses of the gentleman on the other side of the gate. The 
old servant scraped his shoes carefully, closed the door, and 
rubbed his feet on the mat in the same methodical manner, 
stopped in his passage across the hall to see what the time was 
by the dark-faced, long-bodied clock, and finally tapped at the 
door of Doctor Blandly’s sitting-room. 

“Come in,” said the Doctor; “fifteen two, fifteen four, a 
pair’s six and jack, queen, king — that makes nine. Is that 
you, Jerry ? ” 

u Yes, master ; shall I wait till the game’s finished ? * 


DR. BLANDLY. 


11 


u What do you want ? ” 

Jerry stood by the door; a screen stood between him and 
Doctor Blandly. He stepped forward to the side of this screen 
and stood there, smiling blandly on the comfortable tableau 
before him, while Doctor Blandly continued to count his “ crib.” 

A sea-coal fire was blazing cheerily up the chimney. A dog 
sat behind the high brass fender, with his muzzle resting on 
the top. Between the fire and the folding screen which shut 
out the darkness and cold draughts, a card-table was set. On 
one side of it sat Doctor Blandly, pegging his score on the 
cribbage-board ; opposite him sat the Reverend John Baxter, 
with a churchwarden pipe in his mouth, and a stern eye fixed 
on the Doctor’s pegging. A kettle sang merrily on the fire, 
and its purpose was betrayed in a couple of steaming rummers 
set within reach of the players upon brackets adjutting from 
the side of the fire-place. The Reverend Jolm Baxter, Vicar 
of Edmonton, wore his clerical dress and bands ; Dr. Blandly 
wore a plum-coloured coat, a long, embroidered waistcoat, a 
snowy shirt frill and neck-handkerchief, knee-breeches, and 
thick, grey knitted stockings. Both were comfortably fat and 
red ; the vicar had a jolly cheeriness upon his pleasant face, 
as indeed, at this moment, Dr. Blandly had also, but it had not 
the same expression of habitual content and sleepy satisfaction. 

“ Well, Jerry, what is it ? ” said Doctor Blandly, looking up. 

“ You look so comfortable and cosy, master, I don’t like to 
disturb you. Shall I come again in five minutes ? It’ll do 
him good to wait.” 

“Him ! Who?” 

“ It’s only that there Mr. Barnabas Crewe. He’s not in the 
house, Sir.” 

A loud ring of the distant bell added confirmation to this 
announcement. 

“ Show Mr. Crewe into the library, Jerry.” 

u When you’ve finished your game, Sir ? ” 

“ No ; now. The Vicar threatens to go after this game, 
and I know he won’t before, for I have not turned the corner 
yet, and it is his crib next time.” 

“Well done, Doctor; and it’s past seven,” chuckled Jerry, 
leaving the room. 

“ That Jerry makes himself too familiar, Blandly,” said the 
Vicar. “ Dear me, past seven ! Mrs. Baxter will be growing 
anxious.” 

“ I’ll warrant she’s not half so anxious as you are, Jack 
I declare that when the clock strikes seven you look as if ths 
Day of Judgment was dawning.” 


12 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


“Ben! Ben! I’ll give you a sermon next Sunday upon 
profanity ! ” 

“ Do, Jack ; and I promise to keep awake if you can invent 
any greater punishment for the wicked than that of having a 
scolding wife and faint heart.” 

“ Faint heart, Ben, what do you mean ? Do-.you think I’m 
afraid of Mrs. Baxter P ” 

“I’d give my best punch-bowlt.o hear you tell her you’re 
not. If your sermons were only half as powerful as hers, 
what a well-ordered congregation you would have.” 

“ Ah, Ben, you’re not married ! ” 

“Thank Heaven ! ” 

“ But you’re as big a fool as I am.” 

“ That’s saying a great deal.” 

“ Let me speak. I contend that you are every bit as weak 
as I am. Grant that I — that I — well, that I yield to the 
wishes of my wife ” 

“ Oh, that’s beyond dispute.” 

“ You dare not listen to me, knowing what evidence I can 
bring to convict you of the fault for which you condemn me 
I may yield to my wife, but you yield to everyone.” 

“ You must admit that I only give way where I see 
something to admire.” 

“ Hem ! that’s a dig at Mrs. Baxter ; thank you ! Tell me 
what you see to admire in old Jerry, for you submit to his 
guidance entirely. F he tells you to go fishing for the day 
you go, though you catch nothing but a cold, and have to 
stop in bed all the next day by your servant’s orders. He 
talks to you as though he were your eo L ual.” 

“ And so, by George ! he is. A more faithful, honest, good- 
hearted man never breathed. Not a word against Jerry, Jack, 
for I love him, and he doesn’t take me away from my friend at 
seven o’clock.” 

“ I find fault with you, not with Jerry ; though I admit his 
charms are less apparent to my eyes than to yours.” 

“ If you appreciated charms with my eyes you would have 
more reason for self-congratulation ; there would be no Mrs. 
John Baxter.” 

“ You would have me believe that you were always a 
woman-hater, but you won’t succeed. I believe that you are 
not married just because at one time you loved too well.” 

A kitten was sleeping on the Doctor’s broad knee ; he lifted 
it gently and put it on the rug, rising from his chair without 
replying to the Vicar. The genial smile passed away from his 
face for a moment, as the old wound bled under the rough 


DB. BLANDLY. 


13 


touch. The Vicar, inhaling 1 the fragrant, steam of his gTog, 
noticed only the silence, and continued in a tone of triumph : 

“ Ha ! ha ! I’ve hit this time ! It’s clear now why you 
think all women mean, cunning, deceitful ; you have trusted 
and been deceived.” 

The Doctor, drowning his old memory in the remainder of 
his grog, set down the empty glass, and with his former cheer- 
fulness responded : 

“ If your conjecture is right, I have still the advantage over 
you, Jack. Say that I awoke one day to the fact that the 
woman was a fiend whom I had foolishly taken for an angel, 
one thing is certain ” 

“ Well?” 

“ I did not marry her beforehand.” 

With this Parthian shot the Doctor left the room. 

There was a solitary candle alight in the library, where 
Barnabas Crewe walked up and down impatiently, while at 
the door sat old Jerry with a grim smile of satisfaction on 
his face. The doctor dismissed the janitor with a nod, entered 
the library, and closing the door behind him, said in a cool, 
formal tone : 

“ Now, Mr. Crewe, what do you want with me ? ” 

Barnabas regarded the sturdy Doctor, who stood with his 
feet parted, his hands in his pockets, and a stern unflinching 
expression in his face, as he might have looked at a constable 
while determining whether hd should show fight or bolt, and 
then he growled in sullen remonstance : 

“ I’ve been waiting, outside and in, half-an-hour and more.” 

“ For your own convenience, I suppose. No one asked you 
to come, or requested you to stop. What do you want ? ” 

“ Money.” 

“You might have saved yourself the trouble of coming 
to me for it ; I have none for you.” 

“ But I must have it. There’s my horse locked up in an inn 
stable at West Green, and I can’t get it out until I have paid 
my score.” 

“ Then you must do without a horse, or get a friend to help 
you ; I am none.” 

“ You will let me have a few guineas ? ” 

“ Not a farthing. I gave you fifty pounds in September.” 

“ And it was gone in October.” 

“You should have guarded it better. I constanlly warned 
you that the allowance might be discontinued.” 

“A deal of difference that makes to mel When I have 
money I spend it like a — like a gentleman.” 


14 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


“It is a pity you do not sustain that character in other 
respects. However, that is not to the point. You came here 
six weeks ago for money, and you did not get it ; you will get 
none to-night.” 

“ It is December now, the next fifty will he due on the 
25th ; I only ask for an advance.” 

“ I told you when you were last here that the individual 
who has made you this quarterly allowance, no longer lives ; 
and that the continuance of the payment depended upon the 
generosity of his son.” 

“ And is the son disposed to he generous ? ” 

“I cannot say. I hope to know his decision before the 
quarter-day.” 

“ Will you tell me why this money is paid me P ” 

“ No.” The Doctor spoke with emphasis. 

“ Supposing this money is mine by right, and supposing 
I choose to take my fortune in a lump, instead of having 
to come here like a beggarly tax-collector to take a fourth of 
my income every three months.” 

“Well?” 

“ And supposing I know from whom I have received this 
money.” Barnabas fixed his eyes on the Doctor to see what 
impression his words made. “ And supposing I went to a 
certain hall, not ten miles from Sevenoaks in Kent” — the 
Doctor started, and Barnabas, satisfied with his observation, 
continued : “ and asked Mr. Talbot the question I have put to 
you — what would be the result ?” 

“ Mr. Talbot would say to you, 1 1 know nothing about it.’ ” 

“ Know nothing about it, when he pays me two hundred a 
year ! ” 

“ Exactly so.” 

“ But you know Mr. Talbot — it’s no good denying that — Mr. 
Thomas Talbot, son of Admiral Talbot.” 

“ Who was killed in the battle off Cadiz. Certainly. Now 
listen. If you go to Mr. Talbot he will say, ‘ I know nothing 
about it — you must ask Dr. Blandly,’ and when you come to 
me, I shall say, ‘ I will give you not another farthing so long 
as you live.’ Do you understand me ? I will make it clear to 
you. I desire that you shall never speak to Mr. Thomas Talbot. 
While you conform with my wishes in this respect, I will 
continue the payment of two hundred pounds per annum to 
you and your brother Gerard, supposing that Mr. Talbot con- 
sents to pay the sum granted by his father ; but the moment I 
find you have departed from this condition, I shall stop the 
payment. Is that plain to you ? ” 


BROTHERS. 


15 


u Do you mean to say that it is optional to you P ” 
u I do. So now, Mr. Crewe, you will see that your policy is 
to behave yourself decently. I do not suppose that you under- 
stand wliat gratitude is, or I would point out to you that you 
have reason to be thankful you have not an ordinary man of 
law to deal with. There are few men who would take the 
trouble I am taking to secure you two hundred a year after re- 
ceiving such impudence as I have endured.” 

With the bad grace of a hound who swallows an unsavoury 
morsel, fearing the consequences of refusal, Barnabas Crewe 
gulped down the moral of this lesson and departed. He re- 
frained from cursing the old servant who let him out, and 
turned moodily to return to the “ Black Boy.” 

He felt no gratitude towards anyone in the world, but at the 
same time he was not disappointed with the result of his visit 
to Doctor Blandly. He had assured himself of a fact which 
might serve as the stepping-stone to fortune ; there was the 
hope of many things — money, ease, orgies. 

Coming into the warm glow of light shed from the window 
of “ The Bell,” he paused. Walking and subsequently talking 
had made him dry ; waiting had also made him cold. Never 
in his life had he felt more inclined to drink hot spiced ale; 
but not a penny-piece could he find in any of his pockets, he 
had given his last coin to Slink. So he was compelled to make 
the long return march — thirsty, which he took as a warning to 
foe less generous in future. 


CHAPTER IV. 

BROTHERS. 

West Green is now a busy settlement, with a railway station 
in its midst. Possibly it has lost even its name. At the be- 
ginning of this century it was a quiet rustic village on the 
edge of a pleasant green, where geese fed in the summer 
morning, and young fellows met to play cricket and quoits in 
the evening. In one corner stood a village pump, the village 
stocks, and the cage just where Black Cap Lane made a junc- 
tion with Throttle Street — significant names, which the builders 
of genteel villas have euphemised considerably. 

The stocks were in good repair, and the cage had lately 
received a new set of stout bars. These facts were noted by 
Lieutenant Barnabas Crewe as he returned to the “ Black Boy,” 


16 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


for he stopped hv the pump to refresh himself, and were re< 
membered the following’ morning when he came to consider 
what was next to be done. 

“ I’m not afraid of the old hostler, and I’m not afraid of the 
old woman,” he reflected, shoving his chair from the breakfast 
table. “ When Slink goes to feed the nags we might clap the 
saddles on and bolt ; that’s the simplest way out of the difficulty. 
But there’s a baker o’ one side and a blacksmith t’other — and 
there’s that cage and the stocks on the green. I’ll warrant the 
old woman’s on good terms with her neighbours. She’s outside 
talking to some one now. Wonder who ? Oh, there you are, 
you old tabby, are you ; talking to two men, and one as like a 
constable as needs be. Bolting won’t do with these gentry 
about. Might take the mare and leave Slink here with the 
old screw; but I shouldn’t get anything by that bargain. Be- 
sides, I don’t want to lose my young friend Slink yet awhile. 
HLe might be a plaguey good catspaw for me. Halloa, a man 
on a horse to add to the party, and he looks as much like a 
cursed catch-thief as the other. It would be pleasant to sit in 
the stocks a day like this ! I must pay my reckoning some- 
how. I wonder if Gerard’s in town. I must go and see ; it’s 
my only chance. Shall I attempt to get the mare out? Ten 
to one she’d refuse to let either leave the house until her bill’s 
paid. Better not try ; it might lead to unpleasant conse- 
quences.” 

The result of this decision was that Lieutenant Crewe 
presently lounged out of the inn to take another stroll. After 
walking from one end of the village to the other with affected 
carelessness, he turned down Hanger Lane leisurely, whistling 
a tune and slashing the air with his whip. At the bend of the 
lane he turned round, and seeing no one, at once ceased whist- 
ling and strode out rapidly. From Hanger Lane he took a 
path across the fields, passed Hornsey Wood, and so after an 
hour’s stiff walking he came to Charing Cross. Thence he 
walked to St. James’s, and at length arrested his steps before a 
highly-respectable private house in St. James’s Street. 

“ There’s a dry march and violence to follow if Gerard’s not 
at home,” he muttered, as he pulled the bell. 

A servant opened the door. 

“ Is Mr. Gerard Crewe in town ? ” asked Barnabas. 

The man looked at him from top to toe, and then asked : 

“ What do you want ? ” 

“Want to see him. If he’s in town I’ll run up to his 
rooms. I know them,” answered Barnabas, putting his foot 
in the doorway. 


BROTHERS. 


17 


“ Take your foot away, and I will see. What name ? ” 

“You can say Mr. Barnabas,” replied the Lieutenant, 
withdrawing his foot reluctantly, after looking at the servant 
as if he would like to strangle him. “ It’s always the same,” 
he muttered, as the door closed, leaving him on the safe side 
of the threshold. “ If I was a bum-bailiff they wouldn’t look 
at me more suspiciously or take greater pains to keep me out 
of the house.” 

The servant presently returned, and led the way to the 
first floor, where he opened a door and admitted the scowling 
visitor. 

There was no one in the room. Barnabas threw himself in 
the most comfortable chair he could find, tilted his hat for- 
wards to rest his head against the back, crossed his legs, and 
looked round the room from under his hat with envious dis- 
content. The apartment was heavy and dark, the furniture 
and appointments were ugly, but all was in keeping with the 
taste of those days, and betokened the proprietor’s wealth and 
“elegance.” While his eyes were yet wandering from one 
costly article to another, a door communicating with an inner 
chamber opened, and Mr. Gerard Crewe entered. 

Mr. Gerard Crewe was a tall, delicate-looking gentleman of 
five-and-twenty, with sharp clean-cut features, a pale com- 
plexion, and dark brown hair tied with a ribbon. The ex- 
pression of his face was cold and severe ; his dark grey eyes were 
well sunk ; his mouth was firm ; his teeth particularly white 
and regular. He looked like a student, a poet, an artist, any- 
thing indeed but the brother of the heavy-browed rascal 
before him. A fine cambric handkerchief was round his 
throat, secured with a long, narrow diamond-set brooch, the 
ends, edged with lace, fell upon his embroidered waistcoat. 
He wore an open dressing-gown, black silk stockings and 
morocco shoes. 

“ Well, Barnabas,” he said, closing the door behind him. 

“ And well, Gerard,” answered the Lieutenant, still examin- 
ing the expensive articles of furniture, and not moving his 
position in the least. “ We won’t embrace. That would 
be about as unpleasant to you as to me. I’ll warrant you’re 
not pleased to see me.” 

The fact was too obvious to need comment. Mr. Gerard 
Crewe sat down, crossed his legs, clasped his thin white 
fingers over his knee and looked at his brother with a faint 
expression of disgust in the angles of his lips. 

“ Pictures, books, chaney, gimcracks, gewgaws, every- 
where/’ growled Barnabas, then turning his evil eyes upon 

2 


18 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


Gerard and scanning- him, he continued, “silk and satin, 
cambric, lace, diamonds.” 

“ Do you want an inventory of my possessions P ” 

Barnabas brought his hands from behind his head, sat 
upright, and with a sudden accession of malice, struck his fist 
on his knee, exclaiming : 

“ It’s a cursed shame. Here are we, brothers, and the 
younger lives like a prince, while the other fares like a dog, 
and worse. One has to read books and look at pictures, and 
dangle about my lady this and my lord t’other, to pass the 
time away, while the other has to trudge a dozen miles, to beg 
a few pieces to pay for his night’s lodging.” 

“ You have no one but yourself to blame, Barnabas. You 
never would be led, and if of your own accord you insist 
upon walking in unclean places you must put up with soiled 
clothes. We started with the same advantages — except that 
your ambition was to be a blackguard, and mine was to be 
a gentleman. You always scorned my ambition, why do you 
envy me the result. You have no desire apparently to be- 
come a decent member of society.” 

“ Oh ! plague take your decent society. A pothouse and 
plenty is my motto. You keep your scents and civets, your 
powder and lace, your sneaking, cringing, bowing, scraping, 
lying, fiddling, squalling — What are you laughing at ? ” 

“ At your envying me the possessions you detest so heartily.” 

“ Hang your possessions, I wouldn’t give a fig for them all. 
It isn’t them that, galls me.” 

“ Then what does ? ” 

“ Why it galls me that two thieves should be so unequally 
paid. Here am I, who drudge in the profession and starve, 
while you ” 

“ Control your tongue, or leave my room ! ” said Gerard, 
sternly. 

“A man may tell the truth, I suppose,” said Barnabas, 
dropping his voice, and speaking with dogged sullenness. 
“ You don’t want me to believe that you live like this on two 
hundred a year. Why, those diamonds in your handkerchief 
are a year’s income at that rate. I’dliave stuck to ciphering 
and reading, and quids and quods, had I known that they 
would show me how to cheat and keep a clean face to the 
world.” 

“ Do you want me to throw you down stairs ? That is not 
the purpose with which you usually favour me with a visit.” 
Barnabas gnawed his dirty thumb-nail in silence, and Gerard 
continued : 


BROTHERS. 


19 


** What have you come for P ” 

11 Money.” 

“ What have you got in your pockets ? ” 

Barnabas thrust his hand into his pocket, and then held up 
a piece of black crape, with a coarse laugh. 

Gerard took a couple of guineas from his fob and laid them 
on the table, saying : “ Take them, and go.” 

“ Wait, I’ve something more to say. Sit down.” 

“ 1 can listen, standing.” 

Barnabas finished his thumb-nail, and said : 

“ Did you ever wonder why Doctor Blandly pays us two 
hundred a year, a-piece P ” 

“ I have never troubled myself to consider.” 

“I have. You may take your oath he wouldn’t pay me 
unless he was compelled to.” 

“ What then ? ” 

Barnabas began upon his other thumb-nail, and instead of 
answering the question, put another. 

“ Do you know anyone named Talbot ? Thomas Talbot — 
the son of Admiral Talbot, of Talbot Hall, near Sevenoaks.” 

“ I may have met him.” 

“ Will you take your oath you know no more than that ? ” 

“ 1 know no more.” 

Barnabas gnawed silently for a minute, then put another 
question. 

“ How far back can you remember P ” 

“ I can remember nothing beyond the school where we lived 
from year to year.” 

“Nor I, worse luck ! Have you ever heard of peni- 

tence penny ? ” 

“No.” 

“ It’s a penny that thieves give to the poor when they have 
stolen a pound. I know men who never pass a church without 
slipping a penny under the door. They think it will make it 
all right, and square them at the last. W ell, I’m pretty sure 
that it’s the same thing which led our ‘ benefactor,’ as Doctor 
Blandly, an old fool ! calls him, to provide for us while we 
were youngsters, and give us our present income. It relieved 
his conscience. We were cheated and robbed when we were 
too young to know anything about it, and this paltry two hun- 
dred a year is a restitution to me.” 

“ To you ? ” 

“ To me. I am the elder, and if anything was taken, it 
belonged to me. Now, mark my words, Gerard — if you help 
me to recover it, I will give you half ; we will share and share 

22 — 2 


20 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


alike, and I’ll put my mark to any paper you like to draw 
up.” 

“ That would be a valuable voucher,” laughed Gerard. 

“ Don’t you sneer at it ; I may be a fool, but I’ve got 
cunning for all that. I’m on the true scent ; and if you find 
anything out about young Talbot — if you meet him in society, 
and can get at his history — it shall be to your good. I’ll go 
on my knees and swear to go halves, so help me ” 

“ Take your guineas and go. I know nothing of Mr. Talbot, 
and I refuse any kind of partnership with you.” 

The objectionable visitor was gone, but Gerard Crewe sat in 
the room, still in sombre meditation. He was not thinking of 
Mr. Talbot, nor of the source from which he had derived his 
education and part of his income, the subject had gone from 
his mind the moment that Barnabas quitted the room. He 
was asking himself if the charge brought against him by his 
brother was not true. His eyes were fixed upon a piece of 
rusty black crape that lay upon the rich carpet — the crape that 
Barnabas had exhibited, which had by accident slipped from 
his hand in returning it to his pocket. 

“ Are we alike, we two ; thieves tainted and damned in our 
own conscience, and differing only in fortune ? ” 

He rose and took up the crape with the tongs and put it 
upon the fire, and watched it smouldering away m moody ab- 
straction. “And that is all the difference,” he murmured, 
coming to the end of his reverie ; “ a piece of crape ! He 
wears the villain’s mask : I don’t.” 

He turned from the fire with an impatient movement, and 
returning to the adjoining room with a quick step, sat down 
to breakfast. 


CHAPTER Y. 

THE FIRST VIEW. 

The hostess of the “ Black Boy,’ crossing the stable-yard to 
cut a savoy in the garden beyond, found Slink vigorously 
grooming his horse. 

“ A decent-looking young fellow that, and works well,” she 
said to herself, stopping to watch him. 

Finding himself under observation, Slink raised his hand 
and touched his forehead with his knuckles respectfully. 

“ Where’s vour master ? ” asked the hostess. 


THE FIEST VIEW, 


21 


“ Gone for a stroll, marm.” 

“He seems mighty fond of strolling-. What is his name ? ” 

“ Now what did he tell me P ” Slink asked himself, scratch- 
ing his ear thoughtfully with a corner of the curry-comb. 
“ It wasn’t captain, and it wasn’t mister nor squire, for I can 
remember them.” 

“ He is a gentleman, I suppose ? ” 

“ I’m not so sure of that,” answered Slink, suddenly re- 
collecting the caution his master had given him : “ and now I 
come to think of it I’m sure he isn’t.” 

“ Well, you know what he is then ? ” 

“He’s a nobleman travelling in — what the dickens did 
he tell me he was travelling in P I’ve got such a plaguey 
memory that unless everything’s written down for me in my 
book it all goes clean out of my head.” 

“You can read?” 

“ No, I’m no scholar ; but if I’ve got a thing written down 
in my book, and anyone asks me a question, I just let him 
read my book till he finds out what he wants to know. It’e 
not a bad notion for a young fellow just turned nineteen.” 

“ I should like to see your book,” said the hostess, trying to 
keep a grave face. 

“ So should I. I forgot to bring it with me. However, 
I’ve hit on another capital notion that I’ll be bound will 
answer as well. I’ve put a dozen horse beans in my near side 
pocket ; my off-side pocket’s empty — no it isn’t, there’s one 
there. Now what’s that for? Oh, I know. The young 
woman in the kitchen told me not to forget to wipe my feet 
when I came in. You see hov it acts ; and I’m bound to find 
it out, because when I’m not doing anything I have a knack of 
putting my hands in my pockets.” 

The hostess nodded approval, and Slink, highly delighted 
with this testimony of his sagacity, continued : 

“I’ll just get his honour to tell me what he is, and what 
he’s travelling in; then I’ll clap a couple of beans in my 
pocket to remember by. ThalHs pretty good for a young chap, 
isn’t it ? ” 

“Hum. And how long have you had this master P” 

“ Ever since the day before yesterday.” 

' Where does he live?” 

“I’m pretty certain he told me, but don’t remember now. 
If I’d only thought of my beans before ! ” 

“ And where did he engage you ? Do you remember that P” 

“ Oh, yes, well enough. It happened we were both waiting 
at the blacksmith’s to have our horses shod, and his honour 


22 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


came up and patted the mare, and beginning 1 to talk in a 
sociable way about one thing and t’other, asked me where I 
came from, and so on.” 

" And what did you reply ? ” 

" I said I came from Talbot Hall, but I hadn’t got a master, 
seeing that Doctor Blandly had wrote to the housekeeper to 
say he was killed in a battle by the French — plague take them ! 
Then he seemed more interested than ever, and more kind, and 
said, seeing as I hadn’t a master, he would take me into his 
service, and give me four times as much for wages as I had at 
the Hall.” 

" And you agreed P ” 

" Yes ; but it were not for the wages altogether.” Slink 
gave vent to a deep sigh, and hung his head. 

" Mary tells me you’ve been crossed in love.” 

" And so I have ; Jenny, the steward’s daughter, the love- 
liest, prettiest maid in all Kent. She’s pretty near broke my 
heart ; one day smiling at me till I felt prouder and happier 
than the king on his throne, and the next day making fun of 
me, till I wished I was dead and buried. I threatened to leave 
her often, and she was always asking me why I didn’t, and 
daring me to it, and the day before yesterday she crowned it 
all by calling me a fool, so feeling right down desperate, I 
accepted his honour’s service.” 

" Tell me what has happened since.” 

" Well, we took a long ride that night, and stopped at an 
inn to sleep. Yesterday we crossed a river by a ferry, and 
then we rode until we came here.” 

" Did anything occur upon the road P n 

"Nothing. I jogged on behind my master and thought of 
Jenny all the while, except when I raced the baker.” 

" Raced the baker ? ” 

"Yes, while master went into an inn to drink something, 
and I was waiting outside minding the horses, a baker stopped 
to give his nag a drink at the horse-trough, and he began to 
make fun of this horse as I’m a-grooming on now. ‘ W r hv 
don’t you get a pair o’ crutches for him ? ’ he says. ‘ Because,’ 
I says, 1 he can run faster without ’em.’ Then his honour came 
out, and says he, ‘ I’ll wager a pound my man can strip you 
and your cart between this and the next milestone, and give 
you up to yon elm for a start..’ 1 1 ha’n’t got but a crown, but 
I’ll wager that and start level,’ says the baker. * Done,’ says 
his honour , 1 jump up ; but mind, if there’s anything in the 
road we make a fresh start.’ ‘ All right,’ says the baker, 
chuckling and laughing, and up he gets into his cart, and up I 


THE FIRST VIEW. 


23 


gets in tlie saddle. His honour got up on the mare, and says 
* One, two, three, off, you devils ! ’ There wasn’t nothing on 
the road, for why, it was nought but a ragged, country-side, 
out-of-the-way kind of a place. By the same token there 
wasn’t any mile-stones. Well, the baker went ahead like the 
wind, and whack my horse as I might I couldn’t gain on him, 
seeing that every moment he got more ahead of me. However, 
master kept up with the baker, and I just managed to keep in 
sight, when the baker pulled up his horse, for why, we’d run a 
couple of miles at least. When I came up I found his honour 
and the baker was having high words. ‘ I’ve beat him,’ says 
the baker. ‘ No, you ha’n’t,’ says master. 1 I’ve done a couple 
of miles and more, and your man’s been getting, furder and 
furder behind-every minute/ says the baker. 1 What do that 
argufy ? ’ says his honour, ‘ you ha’n’t come to the first mile- 
stone.’ ‘ And shouldn’t for a couple of hours if we keep along 
this plaguey road,’ says the baker. 1 Then you’ve lost,’ says his 
honour. ‘ P’r’aps/ says the baker, ‘ but, anyway, I don’t pay ; 
why the horse ain’t had a chance.’ 1 We’ll put a end to this 
discussion,’ says his honour ; * gentlemen always pays their 
debt of honour, and I’ll take care you pay yourn. Just lay 
bold of the horse’s head,’ he says to me. The baker made to 
hit his horse and bolt, but his honour outs with his ” 

Slink’s narrative was interrupted at this point by the 
approach of his master. 

“ Madam, I will trouble you to let me have my bill at once. 
Slink, saddle the mare,” he said, looking angrily from one to 
the other. 

“ You don’t want a bill, my fine fellow ; I reckon you’re not 
likely to pay twice. Your score comes to six shillings,” said 
the hostess. 

“And dear too, for a scurvy pot-house. Take it out of 
that.” 

He pulled out a guinea with an air of contempt, and as the 
woman went off to fetch the change, he said to Slink : 

“ What have you been gossiping about P ” 

“ She wanted to know your honour’s name, but for the life 
of me I couldn’t remember it, but ” 

“ Is that all ? ” 

“ I was just saying how we raced the baker, and I was just 
coming to the part where you promised to blow out his brains 
if he didn’t behave like a gentleman ” 

“ Hang you for a fool ! Didn’t I tell you you were to hold 
your tongue or give indirect answers P ” 

“ To tell lies ! to be sure you did ; I forgot it altogether, but 


24 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


it shan’t occur again, your honour,” and to remember it well 
Slink transferred a bean from his near-side to his off-side 
pocket. 

When the hostess returned with the change the Lieutenant 
and his servant were in the saddle. Giving a key to the 
hostler, she said : 

“ You can open the yard gates, Billy, the reckoning’s paid.” 
Then addressing Slink, she added, “ You take an honest woman’s 
advice, my lad ; go back to your Jenny as soon as you can, 
and leave your fine gentleman to wait on himself.” 

Barnabas raised his whip as if to execute the wish of his 
heart, and strike the speaker, but prudence prevailed, and he 
let it fall upon the bony back of Slink’s gift-horse instead, and 
the two sallied out of the yard. 

They returned by the road they had come the day before as 
far as Southgate, where they dined ; afterwards they left the 
main road, striking out towards "Ware. 

“Let me see what kind of a whip you carry,” said the 
Lieutenant. 

“ I stand a good chance of getting another present,” said 
Slink to himself, as he obeyed. 

“Not a bad whip,” said Barnabas, testing it on his leg, “but 
you will find your horse answer better to this,” — he handed his 
own — “he knows it.’ 

“ God bless your honour ! ” Slink replied, knuckling his hat. 
“ My word ! It’s as heavy in the handle as if it was loaded 
with lead.” 

“ All the good whips are like that. Now listen to me, 
Slink ; I’m looking about for a man that owes me money, or 
his life.” 

“ And your honour expects to find him in these lanes — well 
I never P ” 

“ Perhaps. However, I’m bound to find him sooner or later. 
I daresay he will pretend he don’t know me, and doesn’t owe 
anything, but I shall make him pay all the same.” 

“ In the same way you made the baker behave like a gentle- 
man P ” 

“ That’s it; and if it comes to an argument, or he tries to 
bolt, you’ll just step in and give him a rap with the butt of 
your whip.” 

“ Aye, if we’re not lucky enough to have a constable near 
us.” 

“ That’s not probable, so keep your wits together.” Barnabas 
flicked the mare, and they trotted forward. 

They traversed the lanes without meeting any one but a 


ON THE COACH. 


23 


labourer, who, to give the approaching riders more room, 
scrambled through a gap in the hedge, and passed them on the 
other side. 

It was getting dusk when they came into the high road, be- 
tween Waltham Cross and Cheshunt. The Cambridge coach 
passed them at full speed, the horses’ hoofs ringing sharp and 
clear upon the frost-bound road. The Lieutenant’s mare was 
resting, Slink was fifty yards behind him. The moment the 
coach had passed, Slink put his horse to a trot, and not daring 
to look behind him, said in a tone of fright : 

“ Master, is the coach stopping ? ” 

“ No ; what’s the matter ? ” 

“ Is anyone looking round ? ” 

“ Yes, the passenger behind the driver.” 

“ It’s the Admiral’s son, Master Tom. For mercy’s sake let’s 
take to our heels.” 

But Lieutenant Barnabas Crewe waited until the coach was 
out of sight, trying to fix in his memory all he could see of 
Mr. Thomas Talbot. 


CHAPTER VI. 

ON THE COACH. 

The coach had left Cambridge with four insides and two out- 
sides, besides the driver and guard. One of the outsides was 
a burly farmer, who sat on the seat next to the driver ; the 
other was Mr. Thomas Talbot. 

As they neared Royston, three female servants suddenly 
darted into the middle of the road, and with unanimous cries 
and gesticulations signalled the driver to stop. 

“ Peter ! ” called the driver, raising his chin from his collar 
and turning his head about three inches. 

“ Halloa ! ” responded the guard from behind. 

" It’s the gals’ school ; your insides is full, ben’t it ? ” 

“ Yes, but as three of the insides is males, I’ll be bound they 
can make room for some gals. Males can be wonderful oblig- 
ing sometimes.” 

As the coach pulled up, the servants threw wide open the 
gate of the garden as if they expected the coach to enter, and 
ran up to the house beckoning and calling at the same time in 
a state of great excitement. There was a group of girls stand- 
ing at the door of the large square house kissing and bidding 
farewell to one in their midst. One meagre lady of middle age 


26 LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 

e 

stood on the path imploring Miss Elizabeth to hasten, while a 
second, equally meagre, though possibly more middle-aged 
lady consulted with the guard. 

" Can you make, room for one young lady as far as Edmon- 
ton ? ” asked the guard, in an insinuating tone as he opened the 
coach-door. 

“ No, guard,” cried a shrill voice that came from a further 
corner, behind the shoulders of an extremely stout old gentle- 
man who sat with his hands on his knees and his arms akimbo, 
“ we are already four, and that’s too many.” 

“ Eor my part,” said the stout old gentleman, “ you may stick 
in as many as you like ; it will make no difference to me.” 

“What sort of young lady?” demanded a mild-looking 
young gentleman, who wore glasses and a simper. The guard 
slipping back allowed him to judge for himself. 

The young lady had left the group, and with a composed and 
stately gait was walking down the path ; a young lady appar- 
ently about eighteen, with a little white impudent nose, a 
saucy mouth, and large dark eyes. 

“ I’ve no objection to her sitting on my knee,” said the 
gentleman who had not yet spoken ; “ but I tell you candidly, 
guard, I’m not going outside to oblige anyone.” 

“ Nor I either,” said the young gentleman with the simper ; 
“especially if the young lady intends coming inside.” 

“ I shall ride outside,” said the young lady, after a glance at 
the closely-packed interior. 

“ But my dear Miss Elizabeth ! ” said the two meagre ladies 
in a breath. 

“ The afternoon is fine — I shall ride outside,” answered the 
young lady, firmly. 

“ Well, guard, you must take great care.” 

The guard bustled off to unhook the short, ladder and place 
it. 

“ I shall sit on the front seat.” 

“ But, my dear Miss Elizabeth, there is a gentleman there.” 

“That is precisely why I intend sitting there. I prefer 
gentlemen to guards. Place the ladder here, if you please, 
guard.” Having giyen this instruction, the young lady turned 
round to the house. 

“ Good-bye, Lady Betty ! ” called twenty young voices. 

The young lady made three steps and courtesied to the ground, 
with the majesty of a princess. 

“ Thank heaven, we’re not to have any more inside,” said the 
shrill voice from the corner ; “ the coach is insufferably small.” 

u Large enough for me,” said the fat man, “ and it makes no 


ON THE COACH. 


27 


difference how many they choose to pack in. I always trtVe 
iny share of the room.” 

The coach started, and Tom Talbot commenced making his 
companion comfortable. 

“ Permit me to give you one of my rugs,” said he. 

“ You have two ? ” 

*•' Yes : would you like two P ” 

“ Yes; but I would like you to have two also. They look 
large enough for both/’ she said, coming a little closer to his 
side, with a laugh. 

“ That is admirable economy I Tuck the edge under you — 
so. Are you comfortable P ” 

“ Quite. Are you?” 

“For the first time in my life I am content.” 

“ Content ; is that all, sir P ” asked the young lady, pouting 
her pretty round under lip. 

“ Happy, if you will ; the words are synonymous in my 
mind. Y^hen 1 am content I want nothing to alter, and so I 
should like this coach to run on and on, until — until I saw you 
growing weary. Then my content would end.” 

The young lady smiled very sweetly. 

“ Such a pretty sentiment is worthy a more elegant name 
than content,” she said. 

“ Hut you see I am not elegant,” said Tom ; “ I’m the son of 
an English sailor, who to his last hour fought the nation 
whose fripperies our fine gentlemen imitate, and I think I 
have inherited from him my hatred of elegance — the elegance 
of society which leads men to cloak kindly thoughts and 
generous actions in such trappings that one cannot distinguish 
them from the artifices of the entirely heartless and selfish ; 
that is the elegance I mean, and not the elegance which is 
born in the lily and the lady alike.” 

Again the young lady smiled; then looking at Tom, she 
said with an accent of regret : 

“ You don’t like society.” 

“I like the society of Esquimaux; I prefer the society of 
Bed Indians ; I like the society of Swedes, of Dutchmen, of 
Germans, of all simple people. I like the society of horses 
and dogs; but I hate the society of men who powder and paint, 
who have only just givep up wearing muffs, and who still shawi 
their heads that they may wear the hair of somebody else.” 

“ Everyone hasn't such nice hair as yours.” 

“ It’s a good serviceable crop — keeps my head cool in summer 
and warm in winter, and so serves the purpose that Nature 
intended it for.” 


28 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS, 


“ You have travelled much ? ” 

“Yes, ever since I left college.” 

“ College,” said the young lady to herself ; “ he can’t he the 
eon of a common sailor, then.” 

“ I prefer travelling to hunting, and one must do something/* 
continued Tom. 

“ He must certainly he rich to travel for amusement,” 
thought the young lady. 

“ And I have no particular talent.” 

“ It seems to me you are in every way fitted for society,” 
said she, responding to her own train of thought rather than 
to his last observation. 

“ Well, in being a fool, perhaps I am,” he replied, laughing. 

The young lady looked vexed ; she was not accustomed to 
being laughed at. 

“ I fear you are annoyed.” 

“ No ; only I don’t agree with what you say. Society, with 
all its faults, is not below the horses and dogs which you pre- 
fer ; and, if I may be allowed to say so, one who relinquishes 
the society of English ladies alone, for Esquimaux and Red 
Indians, is not himself without a fault.” 

Tom opened his eyes in astonishment to find a pretty young 
lady, who was clever besides, and sufficiently wise withal to 
see the weak point in his character. 

“ I accept your reproof,” he said. “ Conscience has accused 
me before now of egotism in setting myself apart from the 
society which includes much that is good and admirable. 
After all, it is innate repugnance rather than reason which 
has actuated me. But I owe you my apologies none the less ; 
will you accept them ? ” 

She drew her hand from under the rug and gave it to him 
with a gracious smile. 

“ And now our hands are linked,” said Tom, “ may we not 
introduce ourselves P My name is Tom Talbot.” 

“ And mine Elizabeth St. Cyr, better known as Lady 
Betty.” 

“ I am your ladyship’s humble servant.” 

They chatted on with increasing pleasure, for Lady Betty 
found that her companion was not half so ill-mannered nor so 
priggish as she had at first believed. His dress was not fine, 
she felt no ring through his glove when he shook hands with 
her, but still he was a grand figure of a man, and his brown 
face, if it was not handsome, had yet a frank honesty and 
genial kindliness that won her favour. Had he been a fine 
gentleman she dared not have spoken to him so freely ; but it 


ON THE COACH. 29 

was impossible to maintain silence or reserve with one who 
had so much to say, and spoke his mind with such candour. 

As for Tom Talbot, he was following in the footsteps of 
Hercules and Samson, and other mighty heroes, and having 
for ten years defied beast and man, and, be it. added, woman 
also, he was willing now to set his neck under the dainty foot 
of the pretty young lady at his side. 

" What bewitches me P ” he asked himself, becoming ab- 
sorbed in his own reflections. 4< Not her face ; her features are 
not handsome, they are only pretty, though prettier never 
existed. Her complexion is exquisite, but the tint and texture 
of a skin are not sufficient to enthral one. Till the present 
moment I preferred dark complexions and hated red hair, but 
angels in Paradise should have a brow as white as hers, and 
such soft, gold-red hair should curl upon it for an aureole. 
Her voice is sweet, but I doubt if she could sing like that girl 
I met in Rome, yet she had no charms for me. I have said 1 
could never like clever women, yet she is not so simple as a 
hundred I have known and forgotten. She is absurdly vain, 
that is certain, and affects, in her school-girl way, the airs and 
graces of a fine lady. What is there to admire ? I know not, 
unless it be that her charms and faults are so blended as to 
make her at once human and divine.” 

u I believe you are not listening to me at all,” said Lady 
Betty, laughing. “ Do you know you are staring quite rudely 
at me, and have not answered the question 1 put to you P ” 

“ To tell the truth, I was not listening to you. Abstraction 
is the fault of men who live too much alone.” 

“ I may demand to know what you were thinking about.” 
u I can scarcely tell you. At this moment I am wondering 
if I shall ever see you after to-day.” 

“ It is not likely, if we are to meet only on the tops of 
stage-coaches.” 

“ When do you return to Royston ? ” 

“ To school ? never. My education finished last night, and 
in a few months I am to enter that society which you so much 
dislike ; are you sorry ? ” 

“ Sorry that I may meet you no- more? — yes. Sorry that 
you are going into society ? — no ! ” 

“ Not sorry that I am going into society ! why ? ” 

“ Because I see you look forward to it with pleasure.” 

“ That again shows a sweet feeling on your part, but ” 

“ But ungraciously expressed. Well, to be elegant, I might 
have given you another reason for not regretting your entrance 
to society.” 


30 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


“ Tell me your other reason.” 

“Because* it cannot fail to improve society. Which ex- 
pression do you prefer? ” 

“ The first. What a nice brother you would be.” 

Tom laughed. 

“ Why do you laugh ? ” she asked. 

“ I laughed — not at your compliment, that I accept with 
gratitude, but at the nice distinction suggested by it. I sup- 
pose I am altogether too rough and unornumental to be thought 
of as a sweetheart ? ” 

Lady Betty blushed, then tossed her head, saying to her- 
self, “ Sweetheart ! what a shockingly 7 vulgar and old-fashioned 
expression ! why couldn’t he say admirer ? ” 

“ Peter ! ” called the driver, raising his chin from his 
buttoned over-coat collar, and moving his head two inches to 
the left as before. 

“ Halloa ! ” responded the guard. 

“ Do you know him coming along on the brown boss ? ” 

“ Know him, ah ! and better pleased to see him by daylight 
than by a lanthom.” 

“ Why, it’s Cap’n Small-pox, be’nt it ? ” 

“ Yes, but he’s got a new hoss, and a groom, if you please. 
Ho ! ho ! ” 

They passed Captain Barnabas Crewe, and the guard 
called out : 

“ You’re got your hay-de-kong, Cap’n.” 

“And a lively hay-de-kong he looks too,” said the driver. 
“ There’s more of the calf than the fox in his face.” 

Tom Talbot, looking down at the “ hay-de-kong ” in question 
as they passed, exclaimed : 

“ Toby ! my servant, or J’m very much mistaken.” 

“ Did you say he was your servant, Sir ? ” asked the driver. 

“ Yes, who is the man he is with, do you know.” 

“ Don’t know what he calls himself — we call him Cap’n 
Small-pox. He’s on the road, if all we hear is correct.” 

“ A highwayman ? ” 

“ Highwayman — ah ! ” The driver buried his chin in his 
collar. 


CHAPTER vrr. 

FROM EDMONTON TO 'WINCHMORE. 

Are there robbers about here — so near London p ” asked Lady 
Betty, timidly. 


FROM EDMONTON TO WINCIIMORE. 


SI 


“ Robbers — ah ! ” responded the driver. “ Plentiful as black- 
berries. The clerk at the * Flower Pot/ in Bishopsgate, was 
reading the * Times ’ yesterday as Cap’n Wallis, as I’ve met 
scores of times ’twixt here and Stoke Newington, was ketched 
at Pimlico turnpike with a brace of loaded pistols on him, and 
he’s to be put to the bar for stopping a Mr. Snowdon five 
o’clock in the afternoon, twenty-third of last month, in Xing’s 
Road, Chelsea, and lifting off him a silver watch, two guineas, 
a .seven-shilling bit, and some small pieces.” 

“ Five o’clock in the afternoon ! ” said Lady Betty, faintly. 

“ Five o’clock in the afternoon — ah ! Don’t matter to them, 
so long as there’s no one about. Why, ^eVe the other day my 
old friend Johnny Clifford, a poulterer, a? niggles round tht 
country for chicks to take to Leadenhall,he was jogging along 
in his cart with his wife — it’s his third wife — about this tirn* 
of the day when, out of the cross road comes one of thest 
captains and sings out, ‘ Money or your life.’ Johnny just giv<J 
his horse a crack to get off by running. i Stop, dash youi 
eyes ! stop,’ sings out this here cap’ll, and blazes away with 
his barkers. Johnny’s wife gives a scream and faints right 
away, and he being a tender-hearted sort of a man, pulled up 
for her sake, and just turned out his pockets. Howsomever, as 
this cap’n was holding out his hand for the money, Johnny 
snatched the piece of crape off his face, and knowea him at 
once for Cap’n Allard, as had been prowling about Southgate 
and Winchmore and away to Hounslow for weeks and weeks. 
Well, he give information ” 

“ You look frightened — there is not the slightest fear of the 
coach being stopped, and I think I am strong enough to protect 
you in an emergency,” said Tom, seeing the terror in Lady 
Betty’s face. 

“ Hush — I am listening ! ” she replied, leaning forward to 
catch the driver’s words. 

“ Well, they bound my friend Johnny over to prosecute. 
This was wus than being robbed by Cap’n Allard. ‘ My lord/ 
says he to the Judge, ‘ if you please I can’t prosecute, for I’m 
a poor man, and I’ve thirty-five children ! ’ And that’s a fact, 
he’s had three wives, and you can read it in the 1 Times.’ 
The Judge ordered him to have half a guinea for his expenses 
in coming to London, and expenses of prosecution paid. But, 
lor bless me, what’s that to this galloping Dick that everyone’s 
talking about ? Breaking a man’s arm in Clapton one half 
hour, and robbing a lady of her earrings in the Marsh the next.” 

“ Are you going on to London p ” Tom asked of his com- 
panion, whose eyes were round as a frightened fawn’s. 


32 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


She shook her head and listened eagerly to the driver, who 
having begun to talk, seemed inclined never to leave off. 

u Bless my soul, they’d rob anyone as they happened to find 
unprotected, and the worst of it is a gentleman don’t know how 
to be safe. He takes a hackney coach, or a po’-chaise to be 
safe, and ten to one the driver’s in partnership with the high- 
wayman — and there you are ! ” 

Lady Betty put her muff up to her mouth, with an involun- 
tary movement, and looked straight before her with scared 
eyes, as if she saw a dreaded highwayman threatening her. 

“I ask you again, Lady Betty, where you are going to 
stop ? ” said Tom Talbot. 

“ At Edmonton. But oh ! I have done a thoughtless thing 
— and — and I don’t know what I shall do.” 

“ Tell me what you have done.” 

“ I insisted on going home to-day and mamma doesn’t expect 
me until to-morrow.” 

“ Do you live in Edmonton P ” 

“No, at Winchmore Hill, where that dreadful galloping 
somebody was seen — and there will be nobody to meet me, and 
it is getting dark, and I thought I should be quite safe if I hired 
a fly to take me from 1 The Bell.’ ” 

“ You need be under no alarm.” 

“ How can you say that P Don’t you hear that all the post- 
boys and drivers are in league with the wretches.” 

“ Do you think that 1 am in league with them P ” 

“ You are not a post-boy.” 

“ No, but I can drive.” 

. Lady Betty’s face lit up with eager hope, and she ceased to 
give half her attention to the driver’s narratives, which had 
gone by natural transition from highway robberies to highway 
murders. 

“ And will you — that is, are you going to drive ? ” she 

hesitated, in some confusion, and looked into his face with a 
conflict of hope and fear in her mind, for he had said nothing 
of stopping nor offered her his protection. 

“ I am going to drive from Edmonton to Winchmore, and I 
will take you with me and deliver you safely to your mamma 

if ” he paused to prolong the suspense which gave light and 

shadow to his companion’s young spring face. 

“ If what ? ” she asked with impatient anxiety. 

“ If Lady Betty pleases.” 

What more was needed to make him seem to her the most 
amiable, as he was the most handsome man she had ever 
seen. 


EROM EDMONTON TO WINCHMORE. 


S3 


Her gaiety returned, she chatted and laughed brightly, and 
ceased to attend to the driver’s conversation, albeit his theme 
Was now arson. 

They alighted at u The Bell,” where Tom ordered a tilbury 
to be prepared, and while the horse was being put in, he per- 
suaded Lady Betty to drink a little hot negus, which she 
accepted with becoming reluctance, but drank with evident 
satisfaction. 

It was but half an hour’s drive from Edmonton to Winch- 
more, and Tom Talbot never used the whip once — he wished 
to lengthen the pleasant journey, rather than shorten it ; the 
edge of the red sun could yet be seen setting in a yellow glow 
beyond the delicate fretwork of purple boughs and woven 
twigs that bordered the horizon when they came in sight of 
The Chesnuts, which was the name Mrs. St. Cyr had given to 
her modest estate. 

“ There, there ! Do you see the cbesnut trees on the right, 
and the house lying back from the road with the blue smoke 
rising from the chimnies? That is my home,” cried Lady 
Bett}’- with excitement ; “ and there, above the apple-trees at 
the back, you can just see the pigeon-house. Ah, look ! there 
they go, my pigeons, with Maggie, the black-and-white one, 
leading just the same as ever. And hark ! that is Chloe 
barking. I believe she knows I am coming.” A tear twinkled 
in her eye, and stood on her long dark lashes as she recognised 
these familiar sounds, and felt the full joy of returning" to 
them. Tom groaned. 

“ Why do you make that noise ? ” she asked, turning to him 
and laughing, with a blush in her cheeks for the tear that 
dimmed her sight. 

“ Chloe, who hails your coming with pleasure, will whine 
when you leave. Do you take it I am less sensitive than a 
dog, Lady Betty ? ” 

“ I take it you are less faithful or you would not run away 
from me,” she replied, archly. Turning her eyes again towards 
her home, she cried : “ Ah, there’s the gardener’s boy sweep- 
ing up the dead leaves, and the gate is open. Drive right up 
to the door, and I’ll keep my face behind my muff, and 
astound mamma by my sudden appearance.” 

She leaned back in the tilbury as Tom drove past the 
gardener’s boy and by the circular sweep that led to the front 
of the house ; but before they reached the door she had 
abandoned her idea, and was craning her neck to catch the 
first glimpse of the window. 

u She is peeping behind the curtains to see who her visitors 

3 


34 


LIEUTENANT BARNaBAS. 


are. I can see her pretty hand. Ah, there she is ! Mother, 
dear mother ! ” she cried, and scarcely waiting for the horse to 
stop, she leapt to the ground and ran to embrace her mother 
at the door. 

Talbot descended from the tilbury slowly, reluctant to 
approach in this meeting of mother and daughter. A mother’s 
embrace, which he had never known, seemed to him to partake of 
a sacred character, and he feared to hear the enthusiastic young 
girl pouring out tender words of endearment intended only for 
her mother’s ear. The first words that he caught were these : 

“ So you have had the palings painted green ! ” 

There is a moment in the most joyful meetings of ordinary 
people when the expression of pleasure being exhausted, it is 
necessary to return to plain matter of fact. Tom had come 
within hearing distance precisely at this juncture. His 
illusion was dispelled, and his embarrassment also. 

u My dear, you have not introduced this gentleman,” said 
Mrs. St. Cyr. 

Lady Betty turned in some confusion, for, to tell the truth, 
she had forgotten all about him in her excitement ; then, 
recovering her self-possession, she introduced him with 
becoming formality. As suddenly she broke away from 
stately etiquette and said, with impulsive volubility : 

“ Mr. Talbot and I are friends. He has shared his rug with 
me on the coach, he has saved me from robbers, and he has 
brought me home to you. "VYe must show our gratitude, 
mamma. A short time since he groaned. He was' polite 
enough to attribute his sufferings to the prospect of leaving 
me, but I believe in reality he felt the pangs of hunger. 
When will dinner be ready ? ” 

“ At five o’clock, and if Mr. Talbot will accept our hospitality, 
he will not lessen our obligations, but at least afford us an oppor- 
tunity of expressing our gratitude,” said Mrs. St. Cyr with a 
certain formal grace that suited her admirably. 

“ Now I ought to return some long-winded compliment, but 
for the life of me I don’t know how to do it,” said Tom Talbot 
to himself, so he bowed in silence and murmured an unintelli- 
gible sentence expressive of his pleasure in accepting the 
invitation. 

“ It is too late to see the chicks, and the rabbits, and 
pigeons to-night I suppose, but I must run and say 1 how do 
you do ’ to Chloe,” said Lady Betty, and away she ran, leaving 
Tom Talbot with Mrs. St. Cyr. 

The gardener’s boy was instructed to take the trap into the 
stable, and a maid led Tom to the visitor’s room, where he 


AT “THE CIIESNUTS.” 


35 

proceeded to make his toilet, pausing occasionally to listen to 
the voice of Lady Betty, who at one moment was calling to 
the servant and her mother, at another laughing, and filling up 
the interval by singing snatches of ballads. 

When he had washed, re-tied his hair, and flicked the dust 
from his boots, Tom left his room. At that very instant, Lady 
Betty issued from hers upon the other side of the passage. 
He had lingered over his preparations, she had hurried over 
hers. Each carried a chamber candle, and as they bowed, 
Lady Betty, tickled by the oddity of their position, laughed, 
and said : 

“What a capital subject for a picture we present, Mr. 
Talbot.” 

** A subject that makes me regret I am not a painter,” an- 
swered Tom, regarding her with unfeigned admiration. 

Lady Betty looked more charming than ever in her simple 
evening dress. Divested of her furred pelisse and thick travel- 
ling coat, she naturally appeared taller and more graceful. 
Her dress was of pale lilac muslin, short-waisted, high in the 
throat, with a white tucker, short in the sleeve, which was 
looped up with ruby ribbon, and showed a snowy frill be- 
neath. Every movement of her supple figure made a new, 
delightful curve, the clinging folds of her dress following the 
delicate lines of body and limbs. Her long arms were ex- 
quisitely rounded and white. 

She knew that she was beautiful, and stood a moment to be 
admired. 

This little exhibition of vanity explained how she had come 
to be called Lady Betty. Tom offered his arm, which she took 
with the grace of a princess, and descended the stairs. It was 
the first time she had received such attention, and being led 
down in this manner exalted her imagination. 

“ Oh, fancy,” she said, “ if there were candelabra all down 
the walls, and servants on either side of the stairs ” — she 
stopped, looked at the candlestick she had in her hand, and 
with a sudden transition from grave to gay, added : “why then 
we shouldn’t have to carry each our brass candlestick, should 
we f ” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

AT “THE CHESNUTS.” 

A maid executed a rapid flight from the drawing-room with 
a dust-pan in her apron and a brush under her arm, and Mrs. 

3 — 2 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


St. Cyr appeared at the door, composing her features with a 
smile of welcome, as Tom Talbot and Lady Betty came to the 
foot of the stairs. 

In the drawing-room Tom looked about him with fear, for 
the light was only sufficient to show him the danger of his 
position. Cabinets of bric-a-brac surrounded him on all sides, 
and tables loaded with china made two steps in a straight line 
perilous. The candles sputtered over the difficulty of main- 
taining their new-born light, and the smoke and flame of the 
fire in the chimney seemed not yet to have settled the question 
of ascendency. Tom would have infinitely preferred the 
kitchen, but as he perceived the room had been prepared in his 
honour, he concealed his thoughts and piloted Lady Betty to 
the fire-side with no greater disaster than the smashing of a 
very ugly china dog, which seemed rather to gratify than dis- 
please Mrs. St. Cyr, who declared it would be worth double 
mended, the fashion having set in for pieced china. 

Tom felt a little shiver run through Lady Betty’s arm as it 
rested upon his, and seeing at once that if they were to be com- 
fortable he must break through formal restraint, he took up the 
tongs and attacked the fire at once. 

“ You will pardon me, madam,” he said, “ but I am habit- 
uated to making myself at home under less hospitable roofs 
than yours, so I take in our first acquaintance the privilege of 
an old friend.” 

He knew how to make a fire and coax it into its most gener- 
ous mood ; so the temperature of the room quickly mounted. 

Dinner, which was to have been served at five, was not 
announced until half-past six — a delay which Tom could regret 
on Lady Betty’s account solely, since all that they were called 
upon to suffer in the form of cold and hunger was entailed by 
his own rashness in accepting an impromptu invitation. How- 
ever, the interval was not insupportable, for Mrs. St. Cyr was 
half the time absent — the production of a “ genteel dinner ” 
calling for her personal superintendence — and Tom and Lady 
Betty found it just as agreeable chatting before a fire as upon 
the top of a stage coach. 

Lady Betty did her best to charm the hungering visitor, and 
when a sweet girl smiles only a Goth or gourmand can look 
and think of eating. Nevertheless, Tom led the ladies into the 
dining-room, and took his place at the round table with a lively 
feeling of satisfaction. 

The dinner was elaborate with innumerable side dishes ; 
however, there was plenty to eat, and Tom’s appetite was in a 
condition to appreciate everything. He would not listen to 


AT “THE CHESNUTS. 


37 


Mrs. St. Cyr’s profuse apologies, but praised everything, and 
declared that no King of France could have better cook than 
hers. 

It was not until the dessert was served that Tom found time 
to examine the character of Mrs. St. C-yr, who, now that the 
culinary cares were removed from her thoughts, began to display 
the qualities of her mind. It was not long before he formed 
an estimate. She talked of nothing but fashions; of the 
movements in polite circles ; of court balls ; of forthcoming 
marriages in high life, and tattle about the aristocracy, whose 
names and family connections she seemed to have at her 
fingers’ ends. 

“ I am agreeably surprised to find from the fact that you 
wear a ribbon, Mr. Talbot,” she said, “ that the ( Lady’s Mirror ’ 
is in error respecting the fashion in which people of ton wear 
their hair. It was actually stated that peruques, except for 
evening wear, had gone out, and that the Prince of Wales had 
had his hair cut close behind and curled low on the forehead.” 

“ That may well be, madam,” replied Tom, smiling, “ for I 
haven’t had my head dressed for ten days, and then by a 
rustic at Cambridge. Previously I had been absent from 
England for five years, so I cannot profess to know anything 
of our fashions.” 

u You have travelled a great deal,” said Mrs. St. Cyr, led by 
curiosity to diverge from her favourite theme. 

a Yes, my father was scarcely ever at home, and I stood as 
good a chance of meeting him in a foreign port as in England.” 

“ Your father was a sea-captain, I presume.” 

il An Admiral. He fell in the King’s service before Cadiz.” 

tl An Admiral ! ” Mrs. St. Cyr cast an expressive glance at 
her daughter, and said with a sigh, “ Poor gentleman ! But 
could not your friends or relations persuade you to stay amongst 
them.” 

“ .Relations ; I have absolutely none that I know of. My 
old friends are scattered ; I found only two of my old com- 
panions at Cambridge, and my new friends are only just dis- 
covered.” 

Mrs. St. Cyr bowed, saying to herself, “No friends, no 
relations, and his father an admiral, dead ! poor young man, 
he deserves to have friends, and he shall not go without while 
I live.” 

“ It. must be dreadful to have no home,” murmured Lady 
Betty, looking at Tom with pity in her soft, sympathetic eves, 

“ Ifou make me think so by showing me how delightful a 
home may be,” answered Tom. 


38 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


“ May I presume to offer you my hospitality while you 
remain in England, Mr. Talbot ? ” asked Mrs. St. Cyr. 

“I shall be delighted to avail myself of it whenever a 
chance permits ; but for some time business must occupy my 
attention to the exclusion of pleasure. J have come to Eng- 
land to settle with my father’s legal adviser as to the dis- 
position of the estate which comes to me. I stand in the 
peculiar position of a man with a white elephant — I don’t want 
it, and I can’t conveniently give it away.” 

Mrs. St. Cyr itched to know more, but Tom was thoughtfully 
engaged in scraping crumbs into a heap with his dessert-knife. 
Lady Betty came to her mother’s assistance. 

“ You excite our curiosity, Mr. Talbot, and it is only fair to 
us poor women that you should tell us more. We have no 
white elephants,” said she. 

“ It is very simple. My wants are supplied by a yearly 
expenditure of three hundred pounds ; I could have lived con- 
tent on half that sum. And now I am told that I have to 
make use of a yearly income of three thousand pounds, besides 
a Hall with thirty-nine rooms, and a park and grounds of a 
thousand acres. What am I to do P ” 

Mrs. St. Cyr held her breath ; Lady Betty’s eyes sparkled 
like the diamonds her mind dwelt upon as a possible elucida- 
tion of the vexatious problem this interesting young gentleman 
was called upon to solve. 

“ An estate, a Hall with thirty-nine rooms, and three thou- 
sand a year! ” murmured Mrs. St. Cyr. 

“ I cannot — I should not wish — to dispose of the old Hall ; 
it has borne the family name since John Talbot received Queen 
Elizabeth in it.” 

“ It would be sacrilege ! ” exclaimed Mrs. St. Cyr. 

“ I certainly cannot live in it. Odd as I am, I could not 
abide the solitude of living alone in a great place like that.” 

The ladies did not see the necessity of living alone, but they 
held their peace, and Tom continued : 

“ I shall expect Doctor Blandly to help me out of my 
difficulty.” 

“ Doctor Blandly ! the name is familiar to me.” 

u It is quite possible ; he lives at Edmonton.” 

“ I know a Doctor Blandly, of Edmonton, who is a surgeon; 
he attended to my gardener when he hurt himself with a 
scythe. I remember the fact by the extremely uncivil 
answer he returned when, seeing how well he had cured my 
gardener, I wrote to him bidding him call to advise me on 
the palpitations to which I am subject. He sent word to say 


AT “THE CHESNUTSJ 


39 


he could give me no better advice than to eat moderately and 
not lace tight.” 

“It is probably the same,” replied Tom, maintaining a 
becoming gravity with an effort, “Doctor Blandly was 
originally a physician, blit amassing a competence while yet 
a young man, he gave up his practice and retired to his present 
residence at Edmonton to devote himself to botany and fishing. 
He is an odd, sweetly-disposed old gentleman, who professes to 
be a cynic and misanthrope ; but, nevertheless, his innate 
goodness asserts itself on the slightest occasion, and is so well 
known, that he has almost as much employment in ministering 
gratuitously to the maladies of the poor around him, as he 
previously had in attending to his wealthy patients. He is a 
shrewd and honest man, and his friends have taken his advice 
whenever they found themselves in difficult positions. My 
father was his school-fellow, and it is thus that Doctor 
Blandly came to conduct the management of his property 
and estate. I hope he will continue his services in my behalf. 
I intend seeing him to-night, if you will permit me to leave 
$.t an early hour.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Talbot, you will not leave to-night, the roads are 
dangerous,” said Lady Betty. 

“ I shall have less fear in encountering danger than this 
afternoon, for you will not be imperilled.” 

Mrs. St. Cyr had been musing ; she said suddenly : 

“ Mr. Talbot, I am about to ask a great favour of you, one 
that I feel scarcely warranted in asking upon such short 
acquaintance.” 

“ You will do me great honour, madam, by such a mark of 
confidence.” 

“ Will you introduce me to Doctor Blandly P ” 

“ There is only one reason for hesitation, and that is the 
Doctor’s avowed repugnance to the society of ladies.” 

“ But you said that he professes a repugnance to mankind, 
yet he assists them.” 

“ That is quite true.” 

“ I should like, to tell you my reasons for wishing the advice 
of such a man as Doctor Blandly, if it will not trouble you to 
hear them.” 

Tom Talbot made a gesture of complacent attention, and 
Mrs. St. Cyr, after a few minutes’ thought, continued: 

“ Since my husband’s decease I have lived in retirement, 
and, as you see, with economy, in order that the fortune he 
left should accumulate interest, and enable me, when 
Elizabeth left school, to introduce her to society and give her 


40 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


an opportunity of forming suitable connections and friends 
before my death.” 

“ Mamma, dear, don’t talk of dying, you are a young woman 
now,” said Lady Betty, the tears springing in her eyes. 

“ My dear, you do not know what I suffer with the palpita- 
tions.” 

Lady Betty drew her chair nearer to her mother, and slipping 
her hand under the table, took her mother’s, and held it with 
a loving pressure, while Mrs. St. Cyr continued: 

“ The attorney who has hitherto managed my affairs died 
last week, and his partner is so old and stupid that I do not 
care to trust my financial arrangements to him. 1 know no 
one else, but it is absolutely necessary that I should find some 
honest adviser at once ; my child’s fortune depends upon it.” 

“ In that case I feel sure Doctor Blandly will advise you.” 

“ If you will introduce me as your friend.” 

“ I shall have great pleasure in doing so.” 

“But mamma cannot go this evening!” exclaimed Lady 
Betty ; “ and so, Mr. Talbot, you must stay all night, and take 
her to Edmonton in the morning.” 

Tom accepted without waiting for further persuasion. He 
who would go out of his way to oblige an old woman, could not 
hesitate to stay in comfortable quarters to give pleasure to a 
young one. 


CHAPTER IX. 

NIGHT AND MORNING. 

Mrs. St. Cyr kept a genteel pony-chaise, and as this would 
serve to convey her and Mr. Talbot the following morning to 
Doctor Blandly’s, the tilbury was sent back to Edmonton, the 
gardener, who took it, being instructed to fetch the valise which 
Tom had left at “ The Bell.” 

“ What time will you be called in the morning, Mr. Tal- 
bot ? ” asked Mrs. St. Cyr, when they were separating for the 
night ; “ we usually breakfast at ten. Will nine o’clock be too 
early for your hot water P ” 

“Not a whit, madam.” 

“I rise at half-past seven,” said Lady Betty, archly. 
“Good-night.” J 

Mrs. St. Cyr followed Lady Betty into her room, and having 
closed the door silently and carefully, her first w r ords, spoken 
in a low, impressive tone, were, “ What a pity he hasn’t a 
title.” 


NIGHT AND MOENING. 


41 


“ Why, mamma ? ” asked Lady Betty, with a hlush. 

“ Because then he would be absolutely perfect, my love. 
The son of an admiral with an estate, a Hall with three thou- 
sand rooms, and an income of thirty-nine pounds — I mean a 
hall with thirty-nine rooms, of course, and an income of three 
thousand pounds. I am sure he deserves a title, and it is ten 
thousand pities he hasn’t one. However, he has a pedigree, 
and that is a great thing. His figure is quite superb, and he 
is extremely beauteous.” 

“ I don’t think one can eall him beauteous, mamma.” 

“Well, my love, we may differ in that, but I assure you 
when he was telling us that he was absolutely without relations, 
and had more money than he knew what to do with, I t hought 
I had never seen a more handsome man in my life. And then 
his manner ! ” 

“ I do not think his manners perfect. He is at times 
brusque.” 

“ It is that which gives him such an air of distinction. One 
cannot expect a man in position to agree with everything one 
says, and have a perpetual smile on his face as if he were 
measuring off a dozen yards of bombazine like your Uncle 
William. By-tlie-bye, my love, you must be careful never to 
mention your Uncle William’s name ; it would ruin our pros- 
pects to be known as the connection of a man in the drapery 
line.” 

“ Mr. Talbot seems to entertain a thorough dislike to society.” 

il My child, it is not of the slightest importance what a man 
likes or dislikes before his marriage ; it is afterwards that a 
woman has to conform them with her own.” 

“ You have already settled that I am to marry Mr. Talbot 
then,” Lady Betty said, laughing. 

“ Hush, my darling, you will be overheard. I certainly 
know no one more eligible than Mr. Talbot at present. It is 
certainly a great drawback his having no title, and to be sure 
many merchants have thrice his income ; at the same time there 
are many noblemen who are as rich as the wealthiest commoner. 
I should like my son-in-law to have a title if it was only 
baronet ; a lord would be better still, but my taste has always 
been for earls. I read the other day that the Marquis of West- 
minster’s fortune is prodigious.” 

“ Then there’s little hope for Mr. Talbot,” Lady Betty 
laughed again. 

“ My love ! Mr. Talbot will think you are laughing at him, 
and I would not for the world displease him. He may be of 
the greatest service to us, for though we take the most genteel 


42 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


house in Piccadilly, we cannot obtain friends without an in« 
troduction, and Mr. Talbot must have acquaintances. Besides, 
it is a great advantage to a young lady in society to have an 
admirer to start with ; it attracts attention and collects others, 
like a fly on a treacle-paper.” 

“ But Mr. Talbot will leave England as soon as his affairs are 
settled by Doctor Blandly. He has only seen me once for a few 
hours, and I am not sure that he likes me even. I believe he 
thinks me silly on some points.” 

“ A very good sign. He wouldn’t like you, depend upon it, 
if he thought you wiser than himself. And there’s not the 
slightest doubt you have made a conquest. Perhaps you didn’t 
notice how he blushed, faltered, and Anally tried to conceal his 
emotion by drinking a glass of wine after you had induced 
him to try my pickle.” 

“ It was too hot for him, perhaps.” 

“ Oh, no, my love ; a mother’s eye is not to be deceived. 
And besides, what pretty girl is there who cannot make a man 
like her if she sets her mind to it P You have made your first 
conquest, and as to any fear of Mr. Talbot leaving England — 
well, he may think what he likes about it, but I know he will 
not. I shall ask him to dine with us on Sunday, and if he re- 
fuses, you may tell me that I know nothing of human nature. 
Now kiss me, my darling, and go to bed, for you have to rise 
at half-past seven, remember.” 

At that moment Tom Talbot was saying to himself : 

“ She has certainly the most beautiful arms I have ever seen 
in my life ; she is graceful and fascinating to a degree, but — 
may Heaven preserve me from ever being fool enough to marry 
a girl with such a mother. She is absolutely vulgar with her 
eternal prattle about fashions, and her yearnings after the 
society of 1 bong-tong,’ as she calls it. i pity the poor girl, 
for I fear she has not sufficient force of character to resist the 
pernicious influence of such example and teaching. She is 
already a little touched with her mother’s mania. As for my- 
self, I must be careful how I yield to the witcheries of the little 
siren, though there’s little danger in that. She wouldn’t be 
likely to fall in love with me under any circumstances, and I 
suppose I shall never set eyes on her again after to-morrow 
morning. One is never romantic before breakfast, and she’ll 
find me as chilly as the morning, I warrant.” 

With this satisfactory reflection Tom Talbot turned upon 
his side and fell asleep. 

Tom Talbot was sitting in the drawing-room, gravely read- 
ing one of Mrs. St. Cyr’s favourite magazines — “ The Court 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


43 


Gazetteer and Lady’s Indispensable Compendium of Life and 
Fashion ” was its title — when Lady Betty came down the 
following- morning-. 

“ Are you improving your mind, Mr. Talbot ? ” asked Lady 
Betty, after salutation. 

“Possibly; but not my temper. You have come in time 
to save me, I hope, from the worst effects of the book’s 
splenetic influence. A few pages more would have made 
me doubt if there was anything in woman to admire but her 
beauty.” 

“ You are more exacting than most men to want more than 
that. It is too early to be serious, and I am going to visit my 
pets. Are you ready to accompany me ? ” 

“ Quite — and you ? I did not hear you enter the room. 
Have you your shoes ? ” 

Lady Betty extended her foot with its neat shoe, giving a 
glimpse of a dainty ankle in a clocked black stocking. 

“ It is no wonder I failed to hear the fall of such a foot ! ” 
said Tom. 

Lady Betty acknowledged the compliment with a. coquettish 
courtesy, and led the way into the garden. 

“ Oh, what a lovely morning ! ” she exclaimed, “ and no 
signs of the frost giving. Mr. Talbot, can you skate ? ” 

“ Fairly. As I do most things — not well.” 

“ Will you teach me ? There is a famous pond at the foot 
of the hill.” 

“ Have you skates ? 19 

“Not at present ; but mamma can buy them to-day.” 

“ You forget that after breakfast we part.” 

“ No ; you are going to take mamma to see an old gentleman 
who does not like ladies ; but after that ■” 

“ After that I leave England.” 

u On business ? ” 

“ No, for pleasure.” 

They had come to a wicket, which Tom opened ; Lady 
Betty turned, and with one hand on the gate and the other 
on the post barred the way. She wore a tippet and a hood 
bordered with fur, which made a suitable frame for her pretty 
face. She held her head a little on one side ; a smile made 
her eyes bewitching. 

“ Would it not give you as much pleasure to stay in England 
and teach me to skate ? ” she asked. 

“ Undoubtedly ; but there are some pleasures that one should 
avoid to be happy. It will take me some time to forget you, 
though our friendship is not yet a day old.” 


44 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


Lady Betty ceased to smile. She looked up in Tom’s face 
with unwonted gravity. 

“ It is a selfish kind of happiness that depends upon your 
not liking anyone very much,” she said. 

“ Yet I do not feel as though I could he selfish when I look 
at you,” said Tom. 

“Then for my pleasure you would stay and teach me to 
skate ? 

Tom bowed. “Where are my resolves of last night?” he 
asked himself. 

At that moment Chloe barked, and Lady Betty, clapping her 
hands, cried, “I have been forgetting all about poor Chloe,” 
and away she ran to the outbuildings where the dog was 
chained, leaving Tom to follow as he would. 

“Hum ! ” said Tom to himself, “ that shows how much she 
values the sacrifice. Forsaken, at the very moment when I 
should be most dear, for a yelping hound ! If the frost 
breaks up she will not want me. And that I see is the best 
thing that could happen to me.” .,,- 

Turning a corner beside the orchard, he found Lao^ .petty 
on her knees with her arms round the neck of a Newfoundland, 
caressing the animal, and talking such unintelligible nonsense 
to it as dogs in common with babies seem to understand and 
enjoy. 

“Oo members me all this time, Chloe, oo faithful old pet; 
and oo wants to come with oo’s little Lady Betty, and oo shall ! 
but oo won’t frighten Lady Betty’s pigeons, will oo ? ” 

She unfastened the chain-snap, and Chloe, faithful to 
canine instinct, took to her heels and bolted off to the kitchen. 

It was a moment of disappointment to Lady Betty ; but her 
eyes following the deserter fell upon the hutch of her favourite 
rabbit to whom she at once transferred her affection. Presently, 
with a whirl and a flutter, the covey of pigeons settled on 
the roof of an adjoining shed. 

“ Oh, my pretty pigeons,” she cried. Then she called Tom, 
whom she had sent off to the garden. “Mr. Talbot, Mr. 
Talbot! never mind about pulling up anymore cabbages — run 
into the stable for me quick, and bring some grain for my 
birds.” 

Tom obeyed, and brought a sieve of oats from a bin in the 
stable, which she took without so much as a single word of 
thanks, for she was talking to the pigeons in terms of 
tender blandishment, to which they responded in voices not 
more soft than hers, as they strutted and pirouetted on the 
ridge tiles. At the sight of grain they came fluttering to her 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 45 

feet, and Maggie, a black-and-white patriarch, bolder than the 
rest, flew up, and ate from her extended hand. 

It was a pretty picture — the young girl amidst her pigeons 
— which Tom looked upon with silent delight. 

“ And she is to be tom away from these innocent delights, 
and taught to like the heartless pleasures of a senseless world ! ” 
he said to himself, with a sigh. “ She is a child and ’tis a 
shame to make her a coquette. 

He did not recognise that the beauty of Lady Betty’s 
childishness owed its piquancy to her coquetry, arid that had 
she been merely childish, she would have been as uninteresting 
as the peasants of Flanders, whose extreme innocence he had 
frequently condemned for stupidity. Had she not been very 
pretty, it is tolerably certain he would not have cared a jot 
whether her tastes were simple or otherwise. 

He still felt sentimental when Lady Betty, setting down the 
6ieve of oats, said : 

“ Feed yourselves now, dears, Lady Betty’s fingers are get- 
ting blue in her gloves. Come, Mr. Talbot, I will leave all 
my aaKiings for you, because — I am cold. Let us have a brisk 
walk, there is still plenty of time. We can walk down the 
hill and see if the ice bears. By-the-bye,” she added, stepping 
along beside Tom with a quick, springy step, “ we were talk- 
ing about the ice — ah, yes, and you promised to teach me 
skating, at my earnest entreaty.” 

“ When Cbloe barked, and you forgot all about me.” 

"That was decidedly rude,” Lady Betty laughed; "but 
you don’t look very vexed w r itli me.” 

“ One could not see you so innocently happy and remember 
one’s vexation. Will you not be very sorry to leave your 
pigeons and domestic creatures ? ” 

“ Oh, I shall be more than sorry to leave my pets. I do not 
mind admitting to you that I shall have more than one long 
cry when we separate.” 

"These simple pleasures seem to harmonize so perfectly 
with your disposition.” 

“As for that, my disposition is of an accommodating kind, 
and harmonizes very well with nearly everything that is 
agreeable.” 

“ Seeibg you among your present pleasures, I cannot 
imagine how you will relinquish them.” 

“ Ah ! you should have seen me with a doll,” said Lady 
Betty gravely. “You might have thought it would have 
broken my heart to give it up. I buried it with tears, Mr 
Talbot.” 


40 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


“ Buried it!” 

“Yes, the day mamma said I must have a long frock made, 
I made up my mind for the sacrifice, and the morning it came 
home from the dressmakers, I buried my doll — and many a 
time I was tempted to exhume it. It lies in the grave next to 
my canary.” 

“ But a doll is not the same as living creatures.” 

“No.” Lady Betty sighed, and then with a tone of resig- 
nation: “Everything in its turn. First sugar-sticks, then 
dolls, then pigeons and rabbits.” 

“ You will not make a good exchange I fear for the latter.” 

“ Why ? Do you not think men and women are more 
interesting than rabbits and pigeons P ” 

“ I imagine that you are not debarred from either in the 
country.” 

“Ah!” said Lady Betty, sententiously, “that is because 
you know so little about it — look at poor mamma, she has 
lived here ever since papa’s death — nearly fourteen years, and 
she knows absolutely no one but the clergyman, who only 
talks about the lake of brimstone and fire, and the deaf 
gentleman that lives in the house down there, and his chief 
recommendation is that he never talks at all. A country life 
is delightful if you can always have a friend staying in the 
house, and if you can leave it for five or six months in the year.” 

Tom laughed, despite himself —Lady Betty continued : 

“ Why do you think a country life so suitable to me — - 
because people living in the country are usually so intensely 
stupid P ” 

“ A country life is allowed to be innocent and beautiful, 
and therein it seemed suitable to you ! ” 

“ Don’t you think its charms are overdrawn ? Poets who have 
written most about it live in towns and exaggerate the little 
they have seen to admire. I should like to see it as they see 
it — a little. One would think that the sun always shines, and 
roses continually fill the air with perfume ; and lambs skip 
about to the tunes played by clean shepherds. They do not 
know what six weeks’ bad weather in an isolated house is, 
they never saw a shepherd in the stocks for being drunk and 
using bad language, and they never mention the cries of a pig 
having a ring put in his nose. And what constitutes its 
innocences — highwaymen in the lanes to keep you indoors, 
with a fear of burglars that make you doubtful if it wouldn’t 
be better to stop in the lane ? ” 

“ Do you wish me to believe that the country is disagree- 
able to you ? ” 


NIGHT AND MORNING. 


47 


“No. I love the country as well as you do — perhaps 
better, Mr. Talbot, or you would settle down as a respectable 
hermit with less fear of encountering the lively members 
of society whom you so detest. "What I wish you to think is, 
that I have aspirations to a higher form of life than that whose 
most agreeable representatives live in hutches and kennels.” 

Tom was astonished by the warmth and strong sense of 
Lady Betty. He had seen her face coquettish and childish, 
but now he found it animated with an intelligent light, and 
almost severe in its earnest expression. 

“ There is nothing prettier than a brood of young rabbits, 
or a nest of blue eggs — no sound sweeter than the first song of 
the nightingale, but it would be wicked to limit my senses to 
the enjoyment of them when Providence has given me the in- 
telligence to appreciate Raphael and Mozart. I do not profess 
that for high objects alone I prefer life to seclusion. I am 
fond of dress, fond of talking nonsense, and laughing at trifles, 
fond of farce as well as tragedy — though I have never yet been 
to a theatre except in my dreams — fond of gaiety and movement, 
fond of dancing, fond of having my eyes open for eighteen 
hours out of the twenty-four. I hate yawning, and now you 
know why a country life is not suitable to my disposition.” 

“ You are very earnest,” was all Tom could say in comment. 

“I feel very earnest. You have roused me by your 
contempt for society.” 

“ You will give me credit also for sincerity.” 

“Yes, but not for impartiality. You are quite narrow 
and prejudiced. You adhere to an opinion which by your 
own showing, was formed ten years ago, and which has been 
exaggerated by seclusion and — if I may add it without 
offending — ignorance of what you condemn.” 

“I am afraid that you are only too just — I was a young 
man, and I believe, even more conceited than I am now, when 
I settled that I was too good for society.” 

“ In that case you ought, in justice to yourself, to reconsider 
the subject, and so when you have taught me to skate, you 
will yet have something to do before leaving England. Ah ! 
here is the pond. Hold my hand and let me see if the ice is 
strong.” 

Tom took her hand and held it firmly as the urgency of the 
case required, while Lady Betty ventured across the frozen 
water with timid steps. 

The ice did not crack, but the surface was wondrous 
slippery, and Lady Betty’s foot slipped more than once, 
causing her to laugh and fear at the same time. 


48 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


"It would be safer if you held my arm P ” she said. 

Safer indeed for her, but not for Tom. A thrill ran through 
his veins as he clasped the beautiful arm, of which he had 
dreamed, and he felt a strange gratification in sustaining 
their mutual position of dependence and support. 

Before he relinquished his hold he had reconciled himself to 
the necessity of postponing his departure from England. 


CHAPTER X. 

A VISIT. 

"Mr. Talrot, how do I look ? ” asked Mrs. St. Cyr, as the 
chaise drew near Edmonton. 

Tom looked at his companion in order to give a fair answer 
to a question which was asked with the utmost gravity. Mrs. 
St. Cyr was still pretty ; her complexion was particularly fresh 
and fair, which, but for her stoutness, would have made her 
appear ten years younger than she was. The few artificial 
touches of pencil and powder were unnoticed by Tom’s un- 
practised eye, and he answered with perfect candour, and in a 
tone which carried conviction : 

" Madam, you look extremely well.” 

"I am glad to hear it, for 1 assure you I attach a great deal 
of importance to the interview with Doctor Blandly, and when 
a woman wishes to interest a gentleman in her business affairs, 
she cannot be too particular about her personal appearance.” 

Tom smiled. Mrs. St. Cyr continued : 

" I assure you there is truth in my assertion. How is it 
that charitable ladies can never raise subscriptions P it is 
because charitable ladies as a rule are dowdy. Can you tell 
me if Doctor Blandly sees many ladies ? ” 

"Scarcely any. A lady never enters his house — if he can 
prevent it — and he refuses invitations where it is possible he 
may meet ladies. I have heard him speak occasionally, and 
not in amiable terms, of Mrs. Baxter, the wife of the Reverend 
John Baxter, a particular friend of his.” 

" Mrs. Baxter ! I know her by sight — a woman who looks 
as if she had been buried for a week, and unfortunately 
resuscitated. If Dr. Blandly has seen only that woman, I am 
not surprised at his aversion to the sex.” 

" I hope you will convert him, madam.” 

"I am not without hope. It is a great advantage to know 


A VISIT. 


49 


his character “beforehand — he is very fond of botany, you said. 
I think?” 

“Yes; and of fishing also.” 

“ Unfortunately I know nothing about fishing ; happily I 
have some knowledge of gardening. Augli ! what a horrible 
smell.” 

“ Some one is burning weeds.” 

u It is shameful to allow such a public nuisance ; it is worse 
than a brick-kiln. I shall carry the odour in my dress, and 
that will undo everything. And now look at the smoke ! 
John, John ! ” she called to the gardener who, dressed in 
livery, was driving the chaise. “ Drive quicker. Beat the 
horse ! Quick, quick, I shall be smothered. I must be covered 
with smuts.” 

“ I assure you your complexion has not suffered.” 

“ And my bonnet, Mr. Talbot ? I tried on half a dozen 
before I found one to my liking, and this light beaver must 
catch the blacks, I am sure ! ” 

“ Not a speck, madam, and we have passed the smoke.” 

“ Dear me, we are just in the high road, and close to Doctor 
Blandly’s house. Let us drive the other way for a few 
moments that the smell may escape from my clothes. Turn 
to the right, John. And after all the precautions I have taken.” 

“ Doctor Blandly being a gardener may not dislike the smell 
of burning weeds.” 

“ It is impossible any human being can endure such a stench 
as that. However, I have my lavender-water with me, and if 
I sprinkle some of that over my dress it may at least counteract 
the smoke. Ah, I have brought civet by mistake ; but it will 
have the same effect. ’Tis an elegant perfume. Can you tell 
me if Doctor Blandly has any other likings, Mr. Talbot ? ” 

“ He likes cribbage, and punch, and a pipe.” 

“ Thank you. If I were a general I should never offer 
battle to my enemy until I was thoroughly acquainted with 
his weak points. I think we may turn now. John! turn 
round — stop at the first house past ‘ The Bell/ ” 

A sudden change in the wind wafted the offending smoke 
down the lane which ran between Dr. Blandly’s garden and 
“The Bell,” and blew it across the high-road at the very 
moment the chaise was passing. 

“ Oh, if I were a man ! ” said Mrs. St. Cyr, through her 
closed teeth, “ how I would swear ! ” 

The condition was not much better when they stopped in 
front of Doctor Blandly’s house, a thick cloud of smoke filled 
the garden. 


4 


50 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


“We will pass through it as quickly as possible,” said Tom, 
handing Mrs. St. Cyr from the chaise. “ I know the secret of 
opening the front gate, and I may dispense with formalities in 
visiting the Doctor.” 

Mrs. St. Cyr kept her handkerchief to her mouth, and said 
nothing. 

“ Hilloa, who’s there ? ” called out old Jerry, as he came 
from among the evergreen shrubs, on hearing the gate open. 

“ A friend, Jerry. Where is your master ? ” 

" Oh, ’tis you, Mr. Talbot, hey — right glad to see you, Sir.” 
He suddenly stopped, and looking at Mrs. St. Cyr, passed hia 
hand thoughtfully over his mouth and chin. 

“ Is your master in the house P ” Tom repeated. 

“ No, he’s looking after the bonfire in the kitchen garden ; but 
do he know, Sir, that you are bringing all the world with you ? ” 

Tom passed by with Mrs. St. Cyr, only saying, “ I will find 
him,” and opening a wicket by the side of the house led her 
into the garden at the rear, taking the weaker side of the 
dense column of smoke which filled one half of the garden and 
swept over the wall. 

In the murky distance could be seen the outline of a stout 
man forking litter from a barrow on to the smoking heap. 

“ That is Doctor Blandly,” said Tom, in a low voice, to his 
companion. 

“ Doctor Blandly ! I expected to find an old gentleman 
with white hands and silk stockings examining botanical 
specimens through a magnifier; and it is his fire that is 
making this smoke.” In a moment Mrs. St. Cyr took the 
handkerchief from her mouth, and assumed as amiable an 
expression as could be arranged in the time. 

Doctor Blandly did not hear the approaching footsteps, for 
he was singing and working at the same time, with his back 
to the house. 

“ Up came a pedlar who^e name was Stout, 

And he cut her petticoats all round about. 

Singing, Fol dol de rol 1 hi, fol de rol ! ” 

At this point Tom, not knowing what lengths the pedlar 
whose name was Stout might go in the following verse, thought 
proper to interrupt the Doctor’s song by a tolerably loud cough. 

The Doctor ceased to sing, and turned to see who his visitor 
was. Mrs. St. Cyr looked at him incredulously. Could this 
be the lawyer, the physician, the retired gentleman of whom 
she had heard so much praise. Indeed Doctor Blandly looked 
very unlike the popular conception of a gentleman. He wore 


A VISIT. 


61 


a brown cloth sleeved-waistcoat, a pair of fustian breeches ; 
grey worsted stockings, a coloured handkerchief, and a red 
worsted night-cap, drawn well over his ears to compensate for 
the absence of his wig, a pair of well-worn leather garden glovei 
completed his dress. 

“ What, Tom my boy ! ” he cried, thrusting his fork in a 
heap of weeds. He came forward, pulling the glove off his 
hand, looking from Tom to the lady on his arm in blank 
astonishment. He gave his hand to Tom, who said : 

“Let me present a lady to you, Doctor Blandly — Mrs. St. Cyr.” 

“ Mrs. St. Cyr ! ” said Doctor Blandly, in a tone of deep 
relief. “Ah, my boy, I was afraid you had made a fool of 
yourself. But you are still a bachelor, I can see that by your 
face — cheerful and content, thank Heaven ! ” 

He made a stiff bow to Mrs. St. Cyr, who responded with 
her sweetest smile, and said : 

“ I am charmed to make your acquaintance, Doctor Blandly. 
I assure you I take this introduction as the greatest favour 
that my dear friend, Mr. Talbot, could render me.” 

Mrs. St. Cyr struggled bravely to the end of this speech, and 
then began to cough violently, a gust of wind having driven 
the smoke across the garden. 

“ Dear friend, eh ? ” said the Doctor, in a low voice to Tom, 
while Mrs. St. Cyr was still coughing. “ Looks like a widow. 
Nothing foolish going on, Tom. Not going to be caught by 
such a fly as that, eh P ” 

“ Nothing of the kind, I assure you,” Tom whispered. 

“ Thank Heaven ! We will go in the house now my mind 
is easy on that point. I am afraid the smoke irritates your 
throat, madam.” 

“ A little ; but it is of no importance, and I assure you I 
quite like the smell.” 

“ I don’t, madam ; there’s a bone or a piece of flannel got 
into the fire. Pough ! Don’t you smell it, Tom ? ” 

“No, Sir; nothing but the ordinary smell of burning weeds 
and earth.” 

Mrs. St. Cyr pressed down the stopper of her scent-bottle, 
with a fearful consciousness that it was the civet which 
offended the doctor’s nostrils. 

“Oh, there’s something else;” said the Doctor, sniffing the 
air about him with dissatisfaction, and pulling his snuff-box 
from his breeches pocket. “ Take a pinch, my boy ? Hum 1 
Do you snuff, madam ? ” 

“ No. I hear that snuffing for ladies is going out of fashion 
in polite circles.” 


4-3 


52 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


“ Mrs. Baxter snuffs.” 

“ Mrs. Baxter ! One cannot be surprised at her doing any- 
thing that is unpleasant.” 

“ That’s what I say, madam, and the parson can’t deny it ; 
all he can say in her behalf is that she’s no worse than other 
women. Pough ! Hang that bone 1 I can’t get the smell of 
it out of my nose.” 

“ I am sure I can’t tell what there is to object to in the 
smoke, Doctor Blandly,” said Mrs. St. Oyr j “ it is very — oh, 
very refreshing and agreeable.” 

“ That is not the only subject on which we should probably 
disagree, madam.” 

u On the contrary,” said Mrs. St. Cyr, anxious to provoke a 
controversy which might offer her an opportunity of yielding, 
“ I think we should agree upon most subjects. To begin with, 
I am passionately fond of botany.” 

“ Do you dig, madam ? ” 

“ Dig ! Oh, Doctor, how can you ask such a question ? ” 

il Because no persons can love botany unless they do. I 
advise you to try digging. Well, my boy Tom, so you have 
come to see me at last. And the Admiral has paid the debt of 
Nature — the only debt he ever had — and I have lost an old 
friend and you a father.” 

Tom nodded in silence. 

u Poor dear old gentleman ! ” sighed Mrs. St. Cyr. 

“ I see no reason to pity him, madam ; he fell as he wished 
to fall, giving his life for his country, a gallant English gentle- 
man. May I ask, Tom, why you have brought a visitor with 
you P ” The Doctor put the question in a tone of unconcealed 
irritation. 

“ Mrs. St. Cyr has urgent need off your; advice ; that is a 
suffich nt explanation.” 

“ Oh, you are in trouble, madam,” the Doctor said, with less 
acerbity in his tone. 

“ Indeed I am. The legal adviser I have relied upon exclu- 
sively for many years is dead. I have lived in seclusion for so 
long that I know absolutely no one to whom I might apply for 
advice, and my affairs are of a delicate nature, which I should 
hesitate to lay before an ordinary — a selfish — a ” 

“ Enough, madam, we will go into the library at once. Tom, 
you know the house ; make yourself at home, my boy. By 
this door, madam. Heugh ! I’ll be hanged if that stench 
hasn’t got in the house ! ” Opening the library door to Mrs. 
St. Oyr, he called to the gardener’s wife : “ Martha, tell Jerry 
to go and look to that fire, there’s something got into it that’s 


OIL AND VINEGAR. 


53 


stinking — that’s poisoning the house out. It must be the 
bones of that pike I caught last Tuesday.” 

.Mrs. St. Cyr felt sure it must be her civet and hastened to 
divert the doctor’s attention, and as Doctor Blandly closed the 
door, said : 

“ Ah, you are a great angler, Doctor Blandly. I must say 
I know very little about, the science.” 

“ Thank Heaven !” murmured Doctor Blandly, in parenthesis. 

“ I have only fished once, and then sat all day in a punt and 
caught nothing.” 

“Nor any one else on that occasion, I imagine.” Then he 
added to himself, “ Good Lord, how she would talk ! A 
woman in a punt for a day’s fishing. One might as well have 
a boy with a set of clappers and a horse pistol.” 

“ To tell the truth I prefer domestic amusements. Cribbage 
for example. I could spend all my time playing cribbage.” 

. “ Glad to hear it, madam. I’m sure you couldn’t spend your 
time to greater advantage. Now, if you please, we will come 
to the purpose of your visit.” 

Doctor Blandly sniffed the air, looked around him fiercely, 
took a pinch of snuff, and pulled his chair up to the table. 


CHAPTER XI. 

OIL AND VINEGAR. 

“ What I am about to reveal is in strict confidence, Doctor 
Blandly, in perfect reliance upon your secrecy,” Mrs. St. Cyr 
said, laying emphasis on the words secrecy and confidence. 

“You need be under no apprehension, for in the first place 
a man knows how to hold his tongue, and in the second he very 
seldom hears anything from a woman that is worth repeating,” 
said the Doctor. 

Mrs. St. Cyr seemed to gulp down her feelings with difficulty 
before recommencing. 

“I must tell you at the commencement,” she said at length, 
lowering her voice, “that my husband’s name was Brown. 
At his death, for reasons which will be obvious to you pre- 
sently, I resumed my maiden name. This fact is unknown to 
any one, my daughter being too young at the time to under- 
stand matters of this kind, and my life for the past fourteen 
years having been a secluded one. There is nothing culpable 
in changing one’s name ; nevertheless, I have kept the fact 
secret even from my daughter.” 


54 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


Slie paused, expecting perhaps that Doctor Blandly would 
express his disapproval ; but he said nothing. He nodded as a 
sign for Mrs. St. Cyr to continue. A doctor and a lawyer are 
accustomed to hearing confessions, and are only anxious to avoid 
increasing the embarrassment of their clients, which too frequent- 
ly prevents them from making a candid statement of their case. 

“ My father held a good position in society. He lived con- 
stantly up to his means. I had many lovers, for I was con- 
sidered pretty then, Doctor Blandly.” The widow paused 
again for the Doctor to make a compliment, if there was a 
spark of gallantry in his nature. Doctor Blandly fished out a 
stick from the miscellaneous collection of rubbish in his left 
hand pocket and a knife from his right, and looking at the 
stick thoughtfully, opened his knife and proceeded to trim it 
up for the purpose of marking the spot where he had sowed 
some seed. 

With a sigh, Mrs. St. Cyr continued: 

“ My father died suddenly, leaving me penniless. My lovers 
forsook me — all except one whom I had encouraged the least. 
He was the poorest, and his name was Brown. There was no 
choice between marrying him and starving. I married him ; 
three years after our marriage my husband died.” 

“ The wisest thing he could do,” said Dr. Blandly to himself, 
as he carefully shaved his stick. 

“ You follow me, Sir?” asked Mrs. St. Cyr, seeing no sign 
of interest in the Doctor’s face. 

“ Perfectly. I never heard a woman keep to the point so 
well. Three years after marriage your husband died.” 

Mrs. St. Cyr, thus encouraged, proceeded : 

“ I loved my husband, and did my best to make him happy ; 
I also loved my child, loved her with all my heart, and I love 
her now — not with the passion of a young mother and a 
widow, but still with all the love of my heart.” 

The Doctor ceased to scrape the stick as he heard those 
words, which were uttered with honest warmth, and looking 
up, found that the powdered and painted lady’s lips were 
twitching, and her eyes wet with standing tears. 

“ I hope your daughter deserves your love, madam,” he said 
kindly. 

“ It is impossible not to love her, Doctor, for she is not only 
good and affectionate, but also clever and beautiful; and I 
assure you, has a prodigious fine air.” 

The Doctor turned again to his former occupation, with no 
other expression on his face than that of attention to the 
careful shaving of his little stick. 


OIL AND VINEGAR. 


61 


u You are straying* from the subject, somewhat,” he said 



“Let us return to the time when your husband 


“ 1 found myself, at his death, in the possession of ten 
thousand pounds. Thinking of my child’s future, I determined 
to put this sum in the public funds, to retire from society, and 
live within the income yielded by the interest on my money. 
With three hundred pounds per annum I have lived comfor- 
tably in my seclusion, and given my daughter a good edu- 
cation.” 

“ I never dreamt a woman could be so reasonable,” thought 
Doctor Blandly. 

“ Her education is now completed, and the time has arrived 
for realising the purpose with which I left society, and which 
has encouraged me for so long to support the dulness and 
solitude of my life. I am about to re-enter society, and intro- 
duce my daughter to the world of fashion and elegant society.” 

“A fool, and no better than the rest after all,” said the 
Doctor to himself with a vicious cut at the stick. 

“ I am aware that to take a genteel house in the West-end, 
and live in polite style, more than three hundred a year is 
requisite.” 

The Doctor responded with a nod of satisfaction. 

“Rents and living have gone up so of late years, that I 
doubt if we could make any appearance under six hundred a 
year, and if one kept a coach, it would mount to eight 
hundred. Now, Sir, you know the position in which I stand, 
and why I am so anxious for your advice.” 

“ Do you wish me to advise you for the happiness of your 
daughter and your own welfare ? ” 

“ Yes, Doctor Blandly.” 

Still trimming his stick, Doctor Blandly replied : 

“ My advice is, madam, that you continue to live within 
the income arising from your invested capital. Have nothing 
to do with fashionable society, and content yourself with a 
good, stout-springed pony-chaise.” 

“ You misunderstand me, Sir, I wish to know how to live 
at the rate of eight hundred a year with a capital of ten 
thousand. For I have already decided upon living in London, 
and nothing can move me from my decision.” 

“ The answer to that question is very simple — cut your ten 
thousand pounds into twelve pieces, and spend one piece every 
year until all is gone.” 

“ But what am I to do after that ? ” 

“ Regret that you did not accept my first advice.” 


56 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


Mrs. St. Cyr waited a few moments while Doctor Blandly, 
unmoved, patiently scraped away at his seed marker, then she 
said : 

“ Is it not possible to buy an annuity* with my money ? ” 

“ Yes. What sort of an annuity have you been thinking 
about ? ” 

“ An annuity terminable with my life.” 

“ "What advantages, in your mind, has an annuity over the 
simple plan of taking as much as you require until you die. or 
your capital is used up P The individual paying an annuity 
always calculates to gain by it.” 

“But all whom I have known have been disappointed.” 

“ Hum ! Then you fancy you w r ould get the best of the 
bargain.” 

“ Yes, for I am certain I shall live to be an old woman. I 
feel as young as ever I felt ; but I should not tell every one so 
— and people paying an annuity are influenced by hope, and 
think their annuitants haven’t ten years to live.” 

Doctor Blandly looked up With half-closed, critical eyes at 
Mrs. St. Cyr, shut up his knife, put the stick into his pocket 
and asked quietly: 

“ How old are you ? ” 

After a little hesitation, Mrs. St. Cyr replied : 

“ Forty-four.” 

“ You are too stout. Do you suffer inconvenience from your 
stoutness ? ” 

“ No. Of course if T run up-stairs quickly, or over-exert 
myself, I feel it — then I have the palpitations.” 

Doctor Blandly never took his eyes from her face as she 
spoke. 

“ If I told you, madam, that you are likely to die sud- 
denly — that you might not live twelve months, would that 
deter you from your scheme ? ” 

“Not at all. On the contrary ; if you could impress that on 
any one wishing to sell an annuity, I should have a greater 
inducement in buying one, as I should get more for my 
money.” 

“ You told me that you still loved your daughter ; how is 
that consistent with your making an arrangement which will 
leave her penniless at your death P ” 

“ When I die my daughter will be well married, and in no 
need of my money.” 

“ Is your daughter engaged ? ” 

“ Well — that is — not precisely.” 

Doctor Blandly was silent for a time, then : 


OIL AND VINEGAR. 


57 


" If I understand your character at all, Mrs. Brown, you 
wish to go into fashionable society in order that your daughter 
may secure a husband with a fortune ; for this end you are 
ready to risk the loss of your whole fortune, and expose your 
daughter to the peril of absolute poverty.” 

“ I see no risk.” 

“That is to say you are blind. But I trust for your 
daughter’s sake you are not so perversely obstinate that you 
will not refuse to be led.” 

“ Doctor Blandly, no one in the world can divert me from 
my intention of taking my daughter into society. It has been 
my constant solace in the weary solitude of these past years. 
It is now my proudest hope to see my child married and in a 
station worthy of her beauty and goodness. She shall not 
endure what I for her sake have endured.” 

“ Then, madam, accept my present proposition. Draw 
from your capital as much as is necessary for this speculation ; 
your daughter may marry before your deceass ; if not, she 
may have something left of your fortune to support her when 
you are gone.” 

“ I will never be a burden on my daughter’s generosity — 
never expose to the world the fact that her mother is not what 
she seemed.” 

“ You oblige me to speak plainly. You will not live to be 
forty-five.” 

If the Doctor expected to terrify the widow by his brusque 
Statement, and check her in a course which he saw might be 
ruinous to her child, he was mistaken. Mrs. St. Cyr smiled 
calmly and shook her head. 

“ I know better,” she said. 

“ Ah ! ” muttered the Doctor. “ Here is a type of woman I 
have seen before. Your fair, fat fool, complacent and self- 
satisfied, is as obstinately stubborn as a veritable pig.” 

Mrs. St. Cyr, on her side, was equally aggravated by the 
opposition of Doctor Blandly, which she conceived arose solely 
from his antipathy to women and natural perversity. She 
spoke tartly when next she opened her lips. 

“ I don’t want to know what I am to do with my money. 
I want you to tell me how I am to obtain an annuity. And 
perhaps as you seem to think it will be such a losing bargain 
for me *’ she paused. 

“ I know what you would say, madam. But I can assure 
you I have no taste for such commerce, and never hope to wish 
for the death of the meanest of God’s creatures.” 

Mrs. St. Cyr rose hastily, as if to terminate the fruitless in- 


68 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


terview. Doctor Blandly calmly crossed his legs, set his elbow 
on the arm of his chair, rested his nose against his forefinger, 
and closing one eye looked thoughtfully at the floor with the 
other. 

“ There are scores of men,” said he, as if talking to himself 
rather than to Mrs. St. Cyr, “ scores of 'em who would jump 
at you and your ten thousand pounds, as a jack jumps at a 
gudgeon. With the doctor’s certificate before them they 
would let you have what you want for your money : without a 
certificate dozens would take your money and promise you 
your annuity. Dozens of ’em would rob you — fleece you — 
turn you inside out and show you your folly for the mere 
asking. The scoundrels believe they are justified in robbing 
fools. But you must be saved from such a punishment a. 
that.” 

Mrs. St. Cyr listened, and her indignation gave way t* 
alarm. She looked at Doctor Blandly, and waited silently foi 
him to end his cogitation and speak. 

“Hum! ” said he at length, raising his head and turning to 
Mrs. St. Cyr, without the slightest sign of ill-feeling or good 
feeling in his expression. “Madam, I know several dealers 
— professional dealers in annuities, who would satisfy your 
demands with little question ; but. I know none whom I would 
trust. For myself I am content to live without anxiety, and 
hope never more to receive a penny-piece at another’s cost ; 
but I am frequently desired to show a good investment to 
people who, like yourself, fancy I may be of service to them. 
If I see a means of providing you with an annuity upon 
terms which I consider just and worthy, I will do my best to 
negotiate for you.” 

“ Oh, Doctor Blandly, I did not expect this kindness from 
you.” 

“ It is not kindness ; common humanity will not suffer a 
man to see a snail crushed if he can help it,” answered Doctor 
Blandly. 


CHAPTER XII. 

COUNSELS. 

“ I hope your interview has been satisfactory,” said Tom, a 8 
he conducted Mrs. St. Cyr to the chaise. 

“ Yes, Mr. Talbot ; Doctor Blandly has promised to assist 
me. That is especially satisfactory, because I feel perfectly 


COUNSELS. 


55 

certain that what ever he does in my behalf must be absolutely 
disinterested — disinterested humanity on his part.” 

Tom felt inclined to smile : it was so clear that the Doctor 
had disclaimed any feeling of kindness towards the widow. 

11 It is difficult at first to know how to conduct oneself with 
Doctor Blandly,” pursued Mrs. Cyr, “but when one gets 
accustomed to his — his original manner one cannot feel any- 
thing but respect for him, and confidence in his judgment.” 

“ The better you know him the more you must admire him.” 

“ As you see, I am not yet composed ; indeed, I feel agitated 
to the last degree. Doctor Blandly has warned me of a great 
danger from which I should scarcely have escaped but for him. 
I cannot tell you how deeply grateful I am to you for the 
introduction, for not only my welfare is concerned, but that 
also of my dear child. You will give me the opportunity of 
thanking you in a more elegant style I hope soon. Shall we 
have the happiness of seeing you to-night ? ” 

“ I shall stay with Doctor Blandly until to-morrow, then I 
shall give myself the pleasure of visiting you. I have pro- 
mised to procure a pair of skates for Lady Betty.” 

“ We shall be enchanted to see you, and desolate until you 
come,” said Mrs. St. Cyr, with a gracious bow, as the chaise 
moved on. 

Doctor Blandly hastily changed his working costume, and 
in his best wig and plum-coloured coat stood at the door to 
receive Tom when he returned to the house. 

“ You have got rid of her, my boy,” he asked. 

“ She is gone, Sir.” 

“ That’s a mercy. How long have you known her, Tom ? ” 

“Since yesterday.” 

“ Yesterday ! and she had the audacity to speak of you as 
a dear friend, and the impudence to express pity for the 
Admiral ! Well, she has one excuse, and that is scarcely 
sufficient — she is a fool, a downright fool, and an obstinate 
fool, and an ill-scented fool, too. If I had only known she was 
but an acquaintance, and not a dear friend, Tom, I’d be hanged 
if ” Doctor Blandly paused. 

" You would have refused to help her ? ” 

“ I won’t say that, my boy, for these fools are to be pitied, 
Heaven help them ! but it is hard that a man seeking peace 
and quiet can’t get two minutes to himself. I shall have to 
see that woman again, more than once, perhaps. I had a kind 
of presentiment when I was shaving this morning that I 
ought to go for a day’s fishing.” 

u And you stayed at home expecting me ? ” 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


60 

4( That’s it. However, you shall pay for it. We will have 
dinner as soon as the light fades, and a clean hearth and the 
cribbage-board after. I will send round for Baxter, and he 
shan’t go home till his wife comes for him. Now, my boy, 
lunch is waiting, and old Jerry is coming with the bottles.” 

“ Here am I, master,” said Jerry, coming up from the 
cellar with a basket which he carried as though it were of 
egg-shell china. 

“ What have you got there, Jerry, port ?” 

u Yes ; two on ’em for you and two for Master Tom, to 
begin with, and I’ll go down for the Madeiry as soon as I’ve 
got these safe out of my hands.” 

“ I told you claret for lunch, you obstinate old man,” said 
the Doctor. 

“ All in good time, Master ; the port won’t be a bit too 
warm by when it’s wanted. They are out of that dark cornel 
on the right hand, Master Tom, and you know I don’t go there 
for every one. Lord, how you will enjoy yourselves presently, 
to be sure ! W r liy, Master Thomas, you look more of a man 
than ever.” 

“ There, go along, you old chatterer,” said the Doctor, 
" and when you’ve brought up what wine you think fit to 
make us drink, lock the gate and tie up the bell.” 

“ I’ll do that first,” said Jerry, in a serious tone. 

“ And don’t you hear any one calling or knocking until you 
see Baxter’s red nose shining over the top of the gate.” 

•'If Baxter is coming I shall have to bring up twice as 
much port, but he shall have his own bottles, and they won’t 
come from the dark corner. That parson would drink new 
port and not know the difference when he’s playing cribbage.” 

Doctor Blandly laughed heartily at his servant’s observation, 
and sat down to the table, which was bountifully covered 
with fish, flesh, and game. 

It was not till the substantial meal was finished, and the 
two gentleman had turned their chairs to the fire, that the 
Doctor could bring himself to speak with gravity upon any 
subject. 

" Well, now,” said he, when Jerry having arranged the 
sand bags in the windows, and placed the coal scuttle close to 
his master’s hand, had withdrawn. "Now, my boy, let us 
talk about your affairs.” 

Tom was silent ; his thoughts naturally reverting to his 
father— the gallant old gentleman whom he had seen so seldom ; 
and of whom he knew so little. The Doctor’s thoughts 
turned also in the same direction, and he recalled his friend as 


COUNSELS. 


61 


he remembered him long ago, a gay, lively boy and fellow 
scholar. With a sigh and a quick movement of his head, he 
banished these reflections, and returned to the subject that 
had to be discussed. 

“ His will is there,” said Doctor Blandly, taking a folded 
sheet of parchment from his pocket and laying it upon tho 
table. “ "You will take it with you and read it at your pleasure, 
Tom. It is simple and clear. Excepting a few unimportant 
legacies your father has left all to you without restraint or 
stipulation, as I told you in my letter.” 

“ Is there no one to share it with me P ” 

“No one. Your mother died at your birth, and I never 
knew of any relations either on her side or your father’s who 
have any claim to participation. The lawyers have had the 
will in hand, and your signature alone is wanting to finish the 
formalities. Virtually, you are now in possession of the Kent 
estate, and property yielding nigh upon three thousand a year. 
I have visited Talbot Hall. You have a very good steward ; 
his accounts are quite correct. The Hall itself stands in need 
of repairs — an expense which must be undertaken under any 
circumstances. The rest of the property is safely invested, 
and all you have to settle is — what will you do with it ? ” 

“ That question has been continually in my mind since I 
received your letter, and I am prepared with an answer to it 
now. I must follow in my father’s footsteps, and be guided by 
you, if you will let me tax your kindness.” 

“ Don’t talk nonsense, Tom. You know that I should break 
my heart if you ceased to accept my services. Are you tired 
of travel P ” 

“ No, I prefer it to staying in one place.” 

“ Good. You have to live another score of years before you 
can content yourself with a world bounded by four brick walls. 
Unfortunately a man cannot begin to enjoy his bachelor estate 
in its fullest comfort until he is fifty. He has to acquire 
sufficient wisdom. So you will travel again ? ” 

“ I have thought so.” 

u You can’t do better. A young man with a decent appear- 
ance, an amiable condition, and money, is never safe. A 
designing woman can flatter him into the belief that she loves 
him'better than anyone else, and he is betrayed by the gene- 
rosity of his nature into offering her marriage. Then he is lost 
— made over hand and foot to the Philistines. I would have 
every boy made to learn the history of Sampson by heart. 
Thanks to your natural taste for never staying in one place 
longer than half a day, you stand a good chance of being happy 


62 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


in your declining years. Of course, you have no intention of 
ma rrying P ” 

“ None.” 

“ And you do not feel disposed to live at Talbot Hall ? ” 

“ No” 

“ Then my advice is, that as soon as you get tired of my 
port, you shall go abroad again.” 

Tom looked at the fire dreamily, ■without answering. He 
scarcely heeded what the Doctor was saying at that moment, 
for his hand, which had slipped into his pocket, rested on a shoe 
— the shoe Lady Betty had taken from her foot for his guide 
in the purchase of skates, and he was thinking of the winsome 
maid. Doctor Blandly looked at him, and saw a smile play 
about his lips, and a soft tenderness in his eyes, which alarmed 
him. 

“ Hum 1 and where do you think of going next, my boy ? ” 
he asked briskly. 

“ I have not the slightest notion,” Tom answered, arousing 
himself. “ I did think of going to South America, but I have 
changed my mind. Somehow I seem to have lost my relish 
for new places, and the old — well, the best of the old is here. 
Doctor. Perhaps, after all, I shall stay a few months in Eng- 
land.” 

“ What is that you keep turning over in your pocket P ” 

“ A maid’s shoe,” answered Tom, drawing it out and looking 
at it with admiring eyes — “ isn’t it pretty ? ” 

The Doctor took it in his hands, turned it over, and fiercely 
said : 

“I’ll be hanged if I think it a jot better looking than 
mine.” 

“ I cannot agree with you,” said Tom, laughing, as he slipped 
the shoe gently back into his pocket. 

“ That woman said she had a daughter ; now I’ll wager the 
shoe’s hers.” 

“You win; it is.” 

“ Ah ! I thought so ; a chip of the old block. Pretty of 
course, and a fool.” 

“ On the contrary, I think she is clever.” 

“ So much the worse — Baxter’s wife’s clever.” 

Tom laughed. 

“There the comparison ends,” said he. 

“ Tom, I don’t like it. The mother is designing, and has 
been pretty enough, and if the girl has as much cunning and 
more prettiness, she will just marry you for your money, if you 
give her vhe chance. My boy, it is more necessary than ever 


COUNSELS. 


63 


that, you should go to South America — to Jericho — anywhere, 
that you may he safe from a clever, pretty girl, whose very 
shoe-leather makes you forget that you are a man and a 
bachelor.” 

Tom thought a moment, then emptying his glass, he cried in 
a reckless spirit : 

“ Well, perhaps it will be wise. And what am I to do with 
all my money — that has yet to be settled.” 

“ I can manage that for you, as I managed it for your father. 
I will let you know when you overdraw your income and 
trespass upon capital.” 

“No fear of that. My expenses will not increase. The 
money can accumulate, and when the time comes for me to 
write mv last will and testament, I can settle it all on a 
charity.” 

“ What could be better ? ” asked Doctor Blandly. 

Perhaps Tom was thinking it might be better to leave it to 
one’s own children than those of others, for he said somewhat 
sadly : 

“ And the Hall — one can’t sell a house that has descended 
from father to son for a couple of hundred years. ’ 

“ It may stand as a monument to their memory, my boy.” 

Tom nodded his bead in thoughtful silence. 

" And now I have to speak on another matter,” said the 
Doctor, altering his amiable tone of voice and speaking with 
cold precision. “ It is a subject which is new to you, and one 
that is unpleasant to broach ; but it must nevertheless be dis- 
cussed. Give me your close attention for a few minutes. 
During the later part of his life, your father paid an annual 
sum of four hundred pounds to two individuals — two hundred 
to each. It was entirely an act of generosity on his part. He 
never mentioned the fact to you — he wished you not to know 
these individuals or their history. They themselves are 
ignorant of the source from which this annual payment arises. 
With the Admiral’s death this payment naturally terminates, 
for they have no place in his will. He could not mention them, 
for that would have betrayed, or led to the betrayal of a secret 
which for your own peace of mind he wished you not to know. 
Nevertheless, I believe he would have you continue to make 
this small yearly allowance at my discretion. He might have 
simplified the matter by leaving me a sum to discharge this 
payment ; but he had some forced notion of delicacy in doing 
that.” 

u Which I fully participate. It would be an ungenerous 
return for your kindness to make you appear his debtor.” 


64 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


u My boy, what on earth does it matter how we appear to 
others P We do our duty, we satisfy our own conscience, we 
sleep o! nights, and it matters nothing how we appear. We 
are not women.” 

“ I do not wish to discover my father’s secret,” said Tom, 
after a few minutes’ reflection ; “ but I should be glad to know 
if the amount paid to these two persons is sufficient for their 
wants. I would willingly double it.” 

“ There is no necessity. One of them would not be satisfied 
with all your money, and I am sometimes inclined to stop his 
allowance altogether; the other is not in need of any assistance. 
Give them two hundred a year a-piece if you will, but give 
them no more.” 

“ Be it so. And you will let me leave the disposition of my 
property in your hands to invest as you will, and take that 
difficulty off my hands P ” 

“ Willingly.” 

Tom held out his hand, and pressed Doctor Blandly’s in 
silent acknowledgment of his gratitude. 

“ One word to conclude that subject,” said the Doctor, hold- 
ing the young man’s hand ; “ I shall write to the lawyers to- 
morrow morning, and they in answer will fix a day for you to 
attend at Lincoln’s Inn. I will bid them name a day as early 
as possible. Then your signatures being made, nothing need 
delay your departure. Until that time you will be my guest, 
will you not ? ” 

“ 1 have promised to visit Mrs. St. Cyr.” 

“ Ah, I had forgotten that shoe. Well, well — return it as 
quickly as possible, and have no more to do with those design- 
ing persons than is absolutely necessary. Mark me — nothing 
good can come to you from that acquaintance. And now let us 
talk of something more agreeable.” 

They chatted without interruption, until old Jerry on half 
entering the room said : 

“ Are you disengaged, master ? ” 

u Yes, what is it ? ” 

“ 1 don’t w-isb to trouble you, Sir. I can come again in five 
or ten minutes.’ 

“ What do you want to say ? ” 

“ It’s only the parson. He’s kicking at the gate. You can 
see him from the window.” 

“Open the gate at once; and look here, Jerry, my m$n, 
you will do well to have a little more respect for my visitors. 
If I was the parson, I’d never give you another sixpence.” 

“Lord love you, master,” answered Jerry, lingering at the 


PREMONITORY SYMPTOMS. 


65 


door, W I wonder who’d help him oyer the garden-wall when 
Mrs. Baxter, comes to the garden-gate for him if I was to 
forsake him in his hour of need. Hark to him, master ! ” 

“ Open the gate at once, you old fool ! Don’t stand there 
grinning and rubbing your hands.” 

The Reverend Mr. Baxter, standing on tiptoe, whistled and 
knocked alternately to attract attention. From the window 
Tom could see his two hands clutching the top, and half of his 
jolly red face shining above it. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

PREMONITOBY SYMPTOMS. 

It was with satisfaction that Tom Talbot found ice in the 
river when he rose the following morning. If the frost had 
broken he would not have been called upon to teach Lady 
Betty to skate, and nothing might have taken place to prevent 
his following the counsel of Doctor Blandly. Scraping the 
frost from the window, and looking over the gently undulating 
English landscape, where every twig and branch stood out 
sharp and distinct against the still, cold sky ; he had less 
desire than ever for the expansive grandeur and fervid mists 
of South America. Solitude had lost its sublimity — or sub- 
limity its charms for him. 

After breakfast he took the stage to London. He bought a 
pair of strong, useful skates for himself at the first shop he 
came to, but he found nothing sufficiently light and pretty for 
Lady Betty until he had examined the stock of half a dozen 
shops. It was half-past two when he reached the Chesnuts. 

Lady Betty must have seen him coming, for the door opened 
before he reached it, and she ran to meet him, her open face 
aglow with sparkling delight. Suddenly she checked herself, 
seeming to remember that she was no longer a child, and 
waited for him to approach with a blush upon her cheek and 
eyes that sought now the ground, now his face, in pretty 
bashfulness. 

“ You are glad to see me P ” Tom said, looking in her face. 

“ Yes ; and are not you glad to see me also ? ” 

Tom did not answer ; his tongue seemed to refuse its office. 
u Are you afraid to flatter me P ” asked she. 
u Lady Betty,” said he, “ I know not how it comes that I 
am silent when I so wish to speak, unless it be that there are 
no words to express my happiness.” 


5 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


With a little cry of gratification Lady Betty slipped her 
hand under Tom’s arm, and her step seemed to gain in elas- 
ticity. 

“ It is a new happiness to be so welcomed.” 

“Mamma says that Doctor Blandly was prodigiously glad 
to see you.” 

“ Hum ! why that’s true,” said Tom, with some hesitation ; 
then, looking sideways at Lady Betty’s face to see what there 
was in it which should make her greeting so much more effec- 
tive than Dr. Blandly’s, he added, “ but your welcome is not 
the same as his, and you are not in the least like him.” 

“I am very glad of it if mamma’s description of him is 
exact — she says he looks like an hostler and speaks like a bear,” 
said Lady Betty, laughing. 

At this moment they came to the door, where mamma stood 
prepared to receive him — all smiles and feathers. 

“ My dear Mr. Talbot, I am so overjoyed to see you. I hope 
you are quite well — and that dear old Doctor Blandly. I pro- 
test I am quite infatuated with him — his manly, straightfor- 
ward way of speaking, and his honest English face, are ever 
present in my memory.” 

Lady Betty withdrew behind her mamma to hide her mirth, 
and put her finger on her lips as a signal of silence to Tom. 

“ Doctor Blandly is quite well,” said Tom, “ and he begged 
me to say that you need not. trouble yourself to call upon him 
as he intends writing to you in the course of the day.” 

“ It will be no trouble, but, on the contrary, a pleasure.” 

“ I am afraid you would be disappointed if you went with 
the hope of seeing him, the — the bell is out of order, and — and 
when the Doctor is working in the garden lie invariably — that 
is, he will invariably have the front gate locked.” 

“ Ah, he is a little shy at present, but I daresay that will 
wear off after we have exchanged a few letters.” 

Not to flatter Mrs. St. Cvr with delusive hopes, Tom asked 
Lady Betty if she would take her first skating lesson before the 
light faded. Lady Betty wished for nothing better. 

A man must have his wits about him to nicely adjust a skate 
on the small surface of a pretty girl’s foot. Tom’s wits deserted 
him from the moment he took Lady Betty’s foot in his hand. 
He felt never more clumsy in his life. He grew warm, his 
fingers trembled and slipped, grazing his knuckles against the 
sharp steel ; he twisted the straps, and buckled them first too 
loose, then too tight; in a word, his bungling efforts were suf- 
ficient to tire one’s patience, yet Lady Betty only laughed. 
She seemed to enjoy his confusion ; she did not find fault or 


PREMONITORY SYMPTOMS. 


67 


attempt to help him, though it was perfectly clear that she 
could have done the whole business for herself in a couple of 
minutes. It inspired her with delightful hopes of conquest, to 
have him kneeling at her feet, for she was a tyrant at heart. 
And what man could she prefer for her slave to one who had 
vaunted his independence, and talked lightly of leaving her. 

As for Tom, he felt he was no longer master of himself from 
the moment he bent his knee ; but he took on his chains readily, 
not knowing how soon they would gall him. 

“ Thank you,” said Lady Betty, when he had finished buck- 
ling on her skates, and proceeded to strap on his own ; “ my 
feet have given you a great deal of trouble.” 

“ ’Tis my faulty hand that gives me trouble, and not your 
foot — that is faultless.” 

“ So I have been told,” said Lady Betty, demurely. 

Tom did not answer. 

“ Now who on earth can have told her so ? ” he asked himself, 
giving a vicious tug at his skate straps ; “clearly some one whose 
opinion she values. A woman would not be likely to tell her 
of her perfections. It must have been a man, and as she hasn’t 
any relations, who the deuce has a right to pass remarks upon 
her feet?” 

Women are quick to make deductions from the slightest 
actions of men in whom they take interest. Lady Betty drew 
her own conclusions from Tom’s silence and that intemperate 
pull at his skate-straps. Had he looked up at that moment he 
would have seen mischief sparkling in her pretty eyes. 

“ I could make him wretchedly jealous if I chose,” thought 
Lady Betty. The thought, however, was transitory, for she 
was eager to learn, and as Tom rose to his feet he found nothing 
but sweet expectancy in her face, and under the influence of 
her smile his brow grew smooth again. 

“ Give me your left hand, Lady Betty,” he said, “ now your 
right.” 

“What great, strong hands you have ! ” 

“The better for serving you. Keep your arms firm. Your 
left foot forward, now your right, left — not too fast, left again 
—so!” 

Lady Betty required little teaching, she was fearless and 
quick, and following Tom*s movements, she got on rapidly. 
After a time, Mrs. St. Cyr came to the edge of the pond and 
regarded her daughter’s movements with proud satisfaction. 

“ There, mamma, what do you think of that?” asked Lady 
Betty, when Tom led her up to Mrs. St. Cyr. 

“ Prodigious, my love I ” answered Mrs. St. Cyr. “ The 

5—2 


68 


LIEUTENANT BABNABAS. 


grace and the elegance are astonishing, and I am not in the 
least surprised that the skating has become a fashionable pas- 
time. I hear, Mr. Talbot, that the Prince has performed the 
cotillions in company with the Duchess of Donegal, and Mrs. 
FitzHerbert, upon the waters at Windsor.” 

“ Very likely, madam, I have seen women, carrying baskets 
of butter on their heads, skate to market in the low countries,” 
answered Tom. 

“ Take me away again,” cried Lady Betty, impatient of delay, 
“the sun is already behind the trees.” 

Mrs. St. Cyr stood on the bank, watching the skaters until 
her feet were numbed, and she had reason to fear that the end 
of her nose was growing vulgarly red, when she waved an 
adieu and returned to the house, leaving the young people to 
follow by themselves — an arrangement which agreed well 
with their inclinations. 

“ Am I a good pupil ? ” asked Lady Betty, when the dark 
compelled them to leave the ice, and Tom was removing her 
skates. 

“ You are too apt. I fear you will be able to dispense with 
your teacher too soon.” 

“You were anxious tQ leave me, and only undertook to teach 
me by compulsion. I believe. Have you abandoned your in- 
tention of leaving England soon ? ” 

“ To tell you the truth, I was never so disinclined to leave it. 
After another lesson you will be able to skate alone ; then I 
shall have no excuse for staying here.” 

“ Oh ! I can supply you with as many excuses as you need. 
In the first place, I do not want to skate alone — in the second, 
it would not be safe for me — I should be nervous and timid the 
moment I felt there was no one to save me if I were in peril.” 

“ You do not seem wanting in courage.” 

“ That is because you mistake my confidence in you for self- 
reliance. I should never feel afraid while a gentleman was 
near me.” 

“ I am afraid you flatter our sex unduly. We are not all to 
be trusted in emergency. In danger women are frequently 
braver than men.” 

“ I don't think so,” Lady Betty said emphatically. 

“ You judge men by the fictions they have written of their 
own heroism ; I judge by experience.” 

“ So do I,” said Lady Betty, drily. 

Tom looked at her in surprise and found her with her eyes 
fixed on the path they were treading, and the delicate lines of 
her brows bent in a frown. 


PREMONITORY SYMPTOMS. 


69 


M There were twenty-one of us,” pursued Lady Betty. 
" Some girls of my own age, others older, and three gover- 
nesses, as old and as tough as — as Oliver Cromwell ; regular 
Ironsides all three. We were out taking the air, and had to 
cross the river by one of the lock gates. There were two 
boards and an iron rail. We were told to hold the rail in 
crossing with both hands — and that was just sufficient to make 
me not hold it at all, as there happened to be a gentleman on 
the bank looking at us. And I tripped over a horrid nail, and 
fell in. 

“ The young girls cried, the elder hid their faces in their 
hands, and the three governesses fainted away — and I was left 
in the water to get out by my own efforts or drown. Luckily 
Philip Norman saved me. And so, Mr. Talbot, I think my 
experience proves by twenty to one, that female courage is 
less reliable than you think it.” 

“ Philip Norman was the name of the fellow on the bank 
who looked at you as you were crossing, I suppose P ” 

“ It was ! ” answered Lady Betty, in a grave voice, casting a 
rapid glance at Tom’s sombre face. “ And I shall never forget 
him,” she added, bending her head to conceal the merry twink- 
ling mischief of her eyes. 

“ Lucky rascal,” muttered Tom. “ Well, of course, the girls 
couldn’t swim ; and if there was a man there he was compelled, 
in common decency, to plunge in and rescue you.” 

“ Yes,” Lady Betty said, with a soft sigh. 

“ He would have deserved a thrashing if he had not.” 

From Tom’s tone of voice it seemed as if he thought Philip 
Norman ought to have a thrashing all the same for having 
done his duty. Lady Betty, who felt as if she were being 
tickled in church, had the utmost difficulty to keep a grave 
face. She put her handkerchief to her eyes, and sighed again. 

“ He did not lose his life in saving yours, did he ? ” Tom 
asked, remarking this sign of grief. 

Lady Betty shook her head in silence, and turned her face 
aside. 

“Then hang him ! ” said Tom, to himself. “She knows his 
name, so it is clear he took advantage of the accident to repay 
himself for his trouble.” 

“ I haven’t seen him for three months,” said Lady Betty, 
her face still averted, and a corner of her handkerchief in her 
mouth. 

u You saw him frequently afterwards, then ? ” 

“ Every week,” murmured Lady Betty, her shoulders making 
ft convulsive movement which passed well for subdued grief, 


70 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


but owed its origin to suppressed laughter. Tom’s tone in- 
creased in moody suspicion with each word. 

“ You saw him every week — here ? ” he asked. 

“No. Mamma has never seen him.” 

“ A clandestine affair ! ” said Tom to himself. u It is 
scandalous the amount of harm that is done to simple girls by 
the neglect of those to whom they are entrusted by over-con- 
fiding parents. Here is some idle vagabond ogling a girls’ 
school, when fortune gives him the opportunity of fishing a 
girl out of the water. He presumes upon the impression this 
trivial service has upon her romantic disposition, to contract 
an acquaintance with her, unknown to her mother. He de- 
serves to be kicked ! ” 

Lady Betty had changed her elastic step for one of senti- 
mental slowness. 

Tom broke the silence. 

“ I suppose this young man, this Philip Norman, has no 
occupation P ” 

“ He is only a poor artist. But if you please we will 
change the subject. Let us talk of something more interesting 
to you.” 

“ No subject can be more interesting than that which con- 
cerns Lady Betty’s happiness.” 

Lady Betty made a courtesy, drew a long sigh, put her 
handkerchief in her pocket, and in a tone of assumed cheerful- 
ness, observed that she thought it would freeze again in the 
night. 

“ I am of your opinion,” answered Tom, and then relapsing 
into silence, he said to himself: “ An artist. I know the sort 
of man — waving hair over his shoulders, moustaches and a 
chin tuft, after the style of Vandyke — a big hat and a ribbon 
to his breeches. And I’m to take his place and to amuse my 
Lady Betty until she makes another romantic attachment. 
Ha ! we shall see. Perhaps I’m not such a weak fool as she 
thinks me. By George, I wish the frost would break, I would 
be off by the first vessel that leaves the docks ! ” 

“ Is it colder than this in Russia ? ” asked Lady Betty, de- 
murely. 

“ Yes — considerably.” 

Silence again, while Tom continued his train of thought. 
“I would like to see the fellow though, just to tell him what 
I think of him. A poor innocent, thoughtless child — she is 
scarcely more ! By heaven ! I would have him out on the 
grass if he dared to come within five miles of her after I have 
warned him off.” 


“THE BEST LAID SCHEMES.” 


71 


u I don’t think we shall have snow,” observed Lady Betty. 
With a struggle Tom brought himself to talk upon meteor- 
ology, and they were still exchanging questions and answers 
on this expansive subject when they reached the house. 


CHAPTER XIY. 

U THE BEST LAID SCHEMES.” 

Mrs. St. Cyr was in her room reading a letter which had 
been delivered by old Jerry, with a brief message to the 
effect that Doctor Blandly did not require an answer. 

The letter ran thus : 


** Edmonton, December 15th. 

u Madam, 

u If you are yet minded to invest your money in an annuity, 
you may take your papers to Mr. Goodman, of Lincoln’s Inn, 
whom I have instructed by letter to-day to pay you the sum 
of eight hundred pounds per annum during the term of your 
life, in consideration of receiving the capital which you propose 
sinking. Proper guarantees being exchanged, you will be en- 
titled to draw your first quarterly payment on the 24th day of 
this month. This you may do if you will, but I repeat that 
it is directly opposed to your own interests, as I judge them, 
and to my advice. Your heirs can claim nothing at your 
death, even though accident or disease should terminate your 
existence on the day of signing the contract. 

“ If you will be guided by reason — live plainly, avoid ex- 
citement, and draw what income is necessary for your wants 
from your capital without investing it unwisely in an 
annuity, 

U 1 am, Madam, 

“ Your servant, 

“ Benjamin Blandly.” 

u A very satisfactory letter indeed ! ” said Mrs. St. Cyr to 
herself, as she folded the letter after reading it. “ It seems too 
good to be true. Eight hundred a year is at least two more 
than I expected, and more than I should have been likely to 
get from any one else. 

“ I have made a prodigious good bargain for a certainty, 
thanks to the old gentleman’s high opinion of himself and his 
own judgment. I suppose I looked anxious and pale at our 


72 


LIEUTENANT' BARNABAS. 


interview — indeed I felt exceedingly uncomfortable, what 
with the smoke from his horrid bonfire, his unpleasant be- 
haviour, and the fear that he would discover the scent he 
objected to was my essence of musk and caromandel. I 
never had any serious illness. I never felt better in my life 
than at present, and as to disease — the most objectionable word 
he could possibly find — it is a preposterous supposition. I am 
a little stouter than I could wish, but that is because I am, if 
anything, too robust in health. If I had known that he would 
grant me an annuity, I should have taken pains to appear 
more delicate than I feel, an attack of the palpitations in his 
presence might have procured me another hundred a year. 
However, I have every reason to be satisfied. With eight 
hundred a year one can live in a very genteel style.” 

Mrs. St. Oyr read the letter through once more, then hearing 
voices in the room below, she hastily slipped it into a drawer, 
locked it up carefully, and descended to the drawing-room, 

She was too occupied with her own affairs, and elated with 
the prospect of speedily realising her long cherished hopes, to 
notice that Tom and Lady Betty were more silent than usual 
— indeed she allowed them no scope for exercising their con- 
versational powers, for no sooner had she entered the room 
than she began to speak upon the subject uppermost in her 
mind, with a volubility which might be likened to a torrent 
into which side streams naturally flow and lose their individu- 
ality. 

“ Embrace me, my love,” she said to Lady Betty, u embrace 
me. I have received a most satisfactory letter from Doctor 
Blandly, and my fondest wishes may be put into execution 
immediately. Mr. Talbot, you will excuse me for introducing 
my personal affairs before you; but I am sure you will be 
interested in that which concerns the welfare of my darling 
child and myself.” 

“ Madam, I can assure you I feel ” 

“ Oh, you have a right to my confidence, for you have been 
instrumental in producing my felicity, and I regard you as a 
dear relative and an old friend rather than a new acquaintance. 
I cannot tell you how highly I appreciate your friendship, but 
you can understand how deeply grateful I am to Providence 
that sent you to my assistance, when I tell you that without 
you my dear child and I might have been utterly ruined.” 

“ Oh, mamma — ruined ! ” 

“ Kiss me, my darling, it is the truth; but for Doctor 
Blandly’s intervention I should have placed the whole of my 
fortune and yours in the hands of some one who would have 


“THE BEST LAID SCHEMES.” 


73 


robbed us. We are singularly placed, Mr. Talbot. I have 
neither relations nor friends on whose judgment I can rely. 
My only acquaintances are one or two neighbouring families, 
composed of women that are perfectly idiotic, and men who 
are no better. I have lived in a state of isolation while my 
child has been at school, and we know absolutely no gentlemen 
— do we, Betty ? ” 

Lady Betty did not reply. 

Tom, coming with chivalrous promptitude to her assistance, 
said : 

“ I am sure any man so fortunately placed as myself, could 
do no less than ” 

“ Mr. Talbot, you have given such proof of disinterested re- 
gard for us two unfriended women that, it would be unjust for 
us to place you in the same category with ordinary acquaint- 
ances. You are our frieud, a dear friend on whose support 
and guidance I feel, that we may rely with confidence in the 
critical position we shall shortly occupy, and, as a friend I 
shall claim rather than solicit your assistance.” 

“But, mamma, you have not asked Mr. Talbot whether 

Mrs. St. Cyr sealed her daughter’s lips with a kiss, and said, 
in a gentle tone : 

“ Do not interrupt me, darling. Give me your best attention, 
my charmer, for this is a subject which closely concerns your- 
self. The questions I have to put to Mr. Talbot will come in 
their fitting place. My husband, Mr. Talbot, died while Lady 
Betty was still an infant. The fortune he left was not large 
enough to permit of retaining a large establishment, and I 
had no longer the inclination to live in a grand style. 

“ I was a young mother and a young widow, and you can 
well imagine that in my position the only thought I had was 
for my child. To provide for her future was my first care, 
and I retired at once to this secluded part. I placed my 
money in the public funds, drawing only sufficient to provide 
for my own wants and Lady Betty’s education in order that 
principal and interest should accumulate, so as to allow of her 
taking a suitable position in society when she left school. 
Anxious to obtain as large an income as possible, I intended 
to remove my capital from the bank and place it in the hands 
of a financial agent, who would invest it to the best advan- 
tage. 

“ You now see the risk to which I should have exposed my- 
self, but for Dr. Blandly. He kindly warned me against the 
public adventurer, and promised to find, if he could, some pro- 


T4 


LIEUTENANT BAENABAS. 


fit able and safe investment. That promise he kept, and this 
afternoon he writes to inform me that I may rely on receiving 
eight hundred pounds a year for the use of my capital. I shall 
accept his offer without hesitation.” 

“ You may do so with perfect confidence,” said Tom ; “ your 
property in his hands will be as safe as if it were his own. 
Not only will the interest be promptly paid but the capital, 
should you wish to withdraw it, will 

11 1 am perfectly satisfied,” Mrs. St. Cyr said, hastily. “ And 
now, Mr. Talbot, we come to a more interesting part of the 
subject. I am to receive my first quarterly payment on the 
ensuing quarter-day.” 

“ That is to say, three months from the present date.” 

“ No : on the twenty-fourth of this month. Is that unusual, 
Mr. Talbot?” 

“I have never known interest on capital to be paid in ad- 
vance, although I believe payment is occasionally made on 
annuities, on the day of capital being transferred ; but I know 
little if anything about financial arrangements, and I can quite 
believe that Doctor Blandly would procure all the advantage 
for you ” 

“ Precisely ; that undoubtedly accounts for everything. 
What a dear, good man 1 ” Mrs. St. Cyr gave a deep sigh of 
satisfaction as this dangerous point was rounded, and proceeded, 
“ I am to conclude the business through Mr. Goodman, of 
Lincoln’s Inn.” 

“ Doctor Blandly’s solicitor. I myself am to see him shortly.” 

“ He is a trustworthy man, of course. For although I have 
no hesitation in telling you my affairs, I should not like them 
divulged, you understand.” 

“ Mr. Goodmair is as discreet as Doctor Blandly himself.” 

“ How charming it is to have to do business with such 
people ! Well, Mr. Talbot, I intend to carry out my purpose 
without delay. I shall sell this house at once.” 

“ Mv poor pigeons ! ” sighed Lady Betty. 

u My darling, you are no longer a child. Pigeons are very 
well in a pasty, or as a side dish.” 

“ Fancy my Maggie as a side dish ! I will never eat pigeons 
again. Go on, mamma. I will bid my pets good-bye to- 
morrow.” 

“ With the proceeds of the sale one might buy a very elegant 
chariot and pair — a rich yellow chariot. What do you think, 
Mr. Talbot 

“ I think it is quite possible, madam.” 

u With respect to a house. I cut an advertisement frond 


“THE BEST LAID SCHEMES.” 


75 


'The Times’ newspaper which I think very appropriate. ■ 1 
have it here in my purse. You are near the light, will you 
read that and tell me what you think of it.” 

Tom took the cutting, and read it with some perplexity. 
“Will you be good enough to read it aloud for Lady Betty’s 
benefit ? ” said Mrs. St. Cyr. 

“ 1 It is pleasing to observe in these enlightened times, ’ ” 
Tom read, “ ‘ that the eulogies of all classes hath been bestowed 
upon Dr. Solomon’s Cordial Balm of Gilead and Elixer of 
Guaiacum, prepared only at the repertorium, and considered by 

the faculty as the most soothing ’ ” 

Mrs. St. Cyr interrupted him, and with many apologies for 
her mistake, produced and offered the advertisement she 
intended for him ; he read it aloud while Lady Betty smothered 
her laughter. 

“ ' To be let, from Christmas, a neat house, known as Mr. 
Johnson’s, Park Lane, suitable to a modern genteel family, at 
a rental of ninety-five pounds per annum.’ ” 

“ That is it. What do you think of Park Lane, Mr Talbot ?. ” 
u It is a very agreeable part of London.” 

“ I am delighted with your approval, and if you will be so 
good as to escort us we will go and see it to-morrow. I hope 
and trust it may not be taken. I shall want some additions in 
the way of furniture, but as I am pretty well supplied with 
china, that will not cost me a great deal. You think I have 
enough china to appear genteel, Mr. Talbot ? ” 

“ Ample,” said Tom, and he added to himself, “and enough 
besides for a genteel museum.” 

“Well, then, I consider the house in Park Lane as good as 
taken and furnished, and all that we now want is an agreeable 
circle of acquaintances — and that, Mr. Talbot, I shall count 
upon your successful efforts to obtain.” 

At this moment dinner was announced, and whatever Tom 
might have had to say in objection to this arrangement, 
remained unsaid, for Lady Betty, who had a capital appetite, 
which she was not ashamed of, rose from her seat with a cry of 
satisfaction as soon as the maid appeared at the door. 

In obedience to the dictates of “good breeding,” Mrs. St. 
Cyr gave a general turn to conversation, and allowed it to 
meander slowly along during the repast, without either hin- 
drance or assistance from herself — her mind still being en- 
grossed in the one great scheme of her life. 

The moment they returned to the drawing-room she re-opened 
the subject with renewed vigour, starting with the assumption 
that Tom had agreed to give his time to making acquaintances 


76 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


at tlie clubs, coffee-houses, and assemblies, whom be would 
forthwith introduce to the ladies in their new home, the neat 
house in Park Lane. 

Tom would have been dull indeed had he not detected from 
Mrs. St. Cyr’s observations the principal object she had in view, 
and that did not encourage him to look more favourably at tin 
prospect of a season in London. 

“Hum!” said he to himself. “ Perhaps I shall be lucky 
enough to meet with Lady Betty’s interesting preserver — the 
artist she has lost sight of for three months, and when she has 
him at her feet, and as many suitors besides as I can rake to- 
gether, I may be permitted to retire from the scene.” 

Tom’s discontent was stimulated by perceiving that his gloom 
served only to divert Lady Betty. She had seated herself at 
the table with paper and pencil at the commencement of the 
evening, and devoted herself to sketching ; but more than once 
when she raised her bead their eyes met, and he found a 
merry twinkle in hers which he knew was not provoked by 
any mirthfulness in his. His dulness was at length perceived 
by Mrs. St. Cyr, who taking it as a sign that he would be glad of 
a little variety, brought her discourse to a conclusion with a sigh. 

“ My love, what have you been designing P ” she asked of 
Lady Betty. 

“ A portrait from memory, mamma dear — the portrait of a 
dear, dear friend.” 

Tom pricked his ears, for Lady Betty’s voice was sad. 

“ Let me look at it, my sweet one. Lady Betty has great 
skill with the pencil, and excels in the water-colours — she has 
taken several prizes, and been highly complimented by her 
master. Oh, my dear ! this is too bad of you — you are really 
too satiric! Yet ’tis an excellent portrait of the dear old 
gentleman, I protest. Mr. Talbot, you shall give me your 
opinion of the production.” 

The sketch was a spirited caricature of an elderly gentleman 
in an antiquated costume. 

“ It is admirably drawn, and very droll,” said Tom. “ Do I 
understand that it is the portrait of a friend ? ” 

“ The portrait of her own drawing-master — the brother of 
the ladies at whose school Lady Betty has received her educa- 
tion. But he is something more to her than a teacher, for 
when she was quite a child he saved her from drowning.” 

“With a boat-hook! ” exclaimed Lady Betty, clasping her 
hands in mock emotion. 

“ And his name is Philip Norman. I trust, my love, he has 
got better of the lumbago.” 


THE ESTABLISHMENT IN PARK LANE. 


77 


“ What a fool I have been ! ” said Tom to himself. Then 
his spirits revived ; he became gay, and spoke of the coming 
events in London with positive enthusiasm. 

When they separated for the night — Mrs. St. Cyr being 
occupied in trimming the wick of the candle for Tom’s use — 
Lady Betty gave her hand to him, and said in a low voice and 
with an arch smile : 

“ You will never be jealous again ? ” 

And he answered, “ Never ; ” snatching her finger tips to his 
lips, and pressing a silent kiss upon them, while his very soul 
seemed to flame in his eyes. 

Never ! What solemn word is more lightly usedP 


CHAPTER XY. 

THE ESTABLISHMENT IN PARK LANE. 

“ My love ! ” said Mrs. St. Cyr to Lady Betty, as she sat sur- 
rounded by her china in the drawing-room of the neat house 
in Park Lane, “ I must admit that I am greatly disappointed in 
Mr. Talbot.” 

“ Why, mamma P He has not altered.” 

“That is precisely my reason for feeling disappointment. 
Except that he has had his hair cut in accordance with the 
fashion, he is not a pin better than he was the first day we saw 
him. He dresses as plainly as a Quaker, and he absolutely 
laughs at the Prince of Wales. Now what sort of society is 
likely to be introduced to us by a man who makes a mock of 
the finest gentleman in Europe P ” 

“He has introduced us to all the friends he knows in 
London.” 

“ And we should have been quite as well without them. 
Two of them were bearded like savages, a third could talk of 
nothing but the wild beasts he had shot in foreign parts, a 
fourth wore a coat that was threadbare, and their main object 
seemed to be to eat as much as possible at dinner, and make 
fun of the aristocracy. I declare Mr. Talbot seems to draw his 
friends from the meanest classes of society, and I consider he 
is wanting in respect to bring such men here at all.” 

“ He only did it to oblige you ; he appears ill at ease the 
whole time they are with us.” 

“ It is as much or their account as ours.” 

“ Possibly. But he warned us that his friends were unused 


78 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


to ladies* society. You have one consolation, mamma — from 
the evident satisfaction these gentlemen had in bidding us 
adieu, it was clear that they intended never to trouble us 
again with their society.” 

“ ’Tis extremely provoking. Here have we been in London a 
month, with one of the handsomest chariots in the West End, 
a servant in livery, a home furnished at an expense which I 
should have considered it impossible to incur, spent all our 
available money and got into debt besides, and haven’t seen a 
man that’s worth more than eighty pounds a year.” 

“ You forget Mr. Talbot, whom we see every day.” 

11 My love, we did not go to all this expense for him. In 
my opinion, you might have made him engage himself to you 
before ever we left Winchmore.” 

“ It is not too late now, mamma, perhaps.” 

“ There is no doubt he would marry you to-morrow, if you 
encouraged him, but you know that I have more expanded 
views. I would have you marry a title, my love — with money 
of course, and it is for that purpose alone I came to London, 
and undertook all these terrible expenses. Why do you shake 
your head, my dear ? ” 

“ Because I think you are not quite truthful in saying 
that.” 

“ I admit I anticipated certain pleasures for myself — but 
what have we found ? What enjoyment is there in riding 
about in our chariot when there is not a soul to bow to ? ” 

“ I find enjoyment in looking about me — in seeing people 
and rich dresses — in feeling the fresh air — in the rapid motion 
— in everything.” 

“ That is the fault of youth — when you get my age ” 

“ I hope I shall be just as faulty,” said Lady Betty, con- 
cluding Mrs. St. Cyr’s sentence, and laughing cheerfully. 

“ ’Tis no better at the playhouse,” continued Mrs. St. Cyr, 
still in a tone of discontent. “ What is the use of a side-box ? 
I protest we should be as well off in the pit.” 

“ Better for seeing, I think.” 

u People who can afford the side boxes don’t go to the play 
to see so much as to be seen ; to run in and out of each other’s 
boxes, banging the doors to attract attention.” 

“ I never en joyed anything more than 1 The Road to Ruin.’ ” 

“ And I never anything less. A comedy they called it. It 
might have been the most doleful tragedy for any amusement 
I could find in it. I felt perfectly wretched to see every one 
laughing, staring at each other, and nodding at friends. When 
people spy at us through their glasses, ’tis wit h a kind of who* 


TOM PROPOSES— LADY BETTY DISPOSES. 7S 


the-Dickens-can-that-be look on their faces, and no one even 
bowed to us, except one of Mr. Talbot’s bearded savages in the 
back row of the pit ; a fine compliment indeed — and I with 
feathers on my head that cost twelve pounds.” 

“ Perhaps he would not have bowed, if they had not at- 
tracted his observation.” 

“ That is not what we are talking about. I repeat I have 
reason to be disappointed in Mr. Talbot. I am sure I miss no 
opportunity of hinting my wishes to him, but he takes no 
notice. He will not be gay and spirited.” 

Mrs. St. Cyr fanned herself in silence for a minute, then 
continued : 

“ A gentleman with money can always make friends. If he 
would only go into some of the card-rooms — Brooks’ or 
White’s — he would find many fine gentlemen only too glad to 
make his acquaintance.” 

“ Gentlemen seeking his acquaintance because he has money, 
would do so chiefly because they have none; and they are not 
the kind of gentlemen you wish to know.” 

“ There you are in error. These fine gentlemen without 
money are bound to know fine gentlemen with money, or they 
could not live at all ; and when they cannot afford to pay for 
a dinner to their rich friends, they are only too glad to take 
them to dine at somebody else’s expense. And that is how 
your fine gentleman without money makes himself useful, and 
contrives to keep himself in favour with all parties.” 

Lady Betty laughed. 

“ I see nothing to laugh at, my love. As I have said — all I 
can do by hinting I have done without effect ; and I think 
you now ought to suggest in a pleasant manner to Mr. Talbot, 
that you would like him to go to the card-rooms and — 
and ” 

“ Lose his money in making friends to be his rivals — hey, 
mamma P Well, I will — that is he knocking at the door now 
— I will ask him when he comes in.” 

“Then for Heaven’s sake let me get out of the room as 
quickly as possible ! ” cried Mrs. St. Cyr, starting up from her 
seat in alarm. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

TOM PROPOSES — LADY BETTY DISPOSES. 

Lady Betty was tambouring, she continued working with a 
grave expression on her young face until the door opened and 


80 


LIEUTENANT BAKNABAS 


Tom Talbot entered the room; then she raised her head, 
stuck her needle in the canvas, and holding out her hand, wel- 
comed the friend with a smile. 

“ Come and sit beside me. I have something to say to you. 
Mamma and I have been talking about you. She has this 
moment left the room.” 

Tom seated himself on the sofa by her side, while she, 
taking her needle again, resumed her work. 

" Do you know mamma’s motive in coming to London — in 
spending more than she can afford — in keeping a yellow 
chariot, and selling my poor pigeons ? ” she asked, when Tom 
after making a few conventional remarks, waited for her to 
speak. 

“ I believe I do,” he replied. 

“ She wishes me to marry well.” 

“ No one knowing you could wish anything else than that. 
Lady Betty.” 

“ The difficulty is to find a suitable husband for me. The 
friends she knew fourteen years ago are dispersed and lost. 
She knows no one except the gentlemen you have introduced, 
and they are not altogether satisfactory — from her point of 
view.” 

“ Her point of view may not be yours, and it is you who are 
chiefly to be considered.” 

“ I may not agree with mamma on all points, but I am quite 
at one with her in regarding your friends as unmarriageable. 
Is there any one of them whom you would have tried to make 
my husband ? ” 

“No; but I would not willingly give your hand to the 
noblest, worthiest man in the world, though he were my 
dearest friend.” 

A smile stole over Lady Betty’s face as she leaned over her 
tambour. 

“Mamma wishes you to go to one of the card clubs and 
find me a husband there.” 

“ Does Mrs. St. Cyr take me for a perfect fool? ” asked Tom, 
with a laugh. 

Lady Betty made no reply, but worked on steadily. 

“ It is odd,” continued Tom ; “ I was at White’s last night, 
and lost fifty guineas to the prettiest gentleman in the room. 
A charming man — handsome, polite, refined, and becoming the 
dress of a gentleman so well as to force one to admiration. I 
never lost my money so willingly in my life, and when we parted 
I begged him to exchange cards that we might meet again 
under more amiable conditions.” 


TOM PROPOSES— LADY BETTY DISPOSES. 


81 


“Do you intend to see him a second time?” asked Lady 
Betty, looking up from her work. 

“ I have seen him a second time. I sought him this morn- 
ing, so much had he fascinated me. We walked together in 
the park, and separated — ten minutes since, and not a hundred 
yards from this house.” 

Lady Betty returned to her embroidery, and worked in 
silent thoughtfulness. 

“ He is exactly the kind of man your mamma is continually 
talking to me about, the sort of man she would make you 
marry if she could, and for that reason I did not ask him to 
come with me here.” 

“ That was ungenerous,” Lady Betty said, calmly. 

“ It is ungenerous, selfish, mean — what you will,” he cried ; 
“say that withal I lose my self-esteem — what then P A mgrn 
will sacrifice more than that to possess a diamond, and if he 
will sacrifice so much for a mere stone that has its value in so 
many pounds, shillings and pence, shall I hesitate at losing so 
little to gain that which is above all price ! ” 

He took her hand from the frame and pushed the tambour 
away, and she, awed by the earnestness with which he spoke, 
and the passion which burned in his eye and trembled on his 
lips, looked with large-eyed wonder in his pale face. 

“ I have thought of you day and night,” he continued, “ and 
tried not to think. I have left this house saying, 1 1 will 
return no more,’ and ere the night had come counted the hours 
until morning, impatient to see you again. I have said, ( I will 
not love,’ and I love.” 

“ You frighten me, and you are crushing my hand.” 

“ I am not master of myself,” he said, relaxing his close 
grasp, yet retaining her hand between his palms with a gentle- 
ness that corresponded to the tender tone to which his voice 
sank ; “I did not intend to say what I have said; ’tis my heart 
and not my brain that governs my will.” 

“ Would you unsay your words ?.” 

“Not for the world,” he cried, quickly; “I say again — I 
love you, dear.” 

He did not fall upon his knee, he did not attempt to kiss her, 
for there was no blush upon Lady Betty’s cheek, no bashful 
yielding of her eyes, to show a responding love. Lady Betty 
was struggling to overcome her astonishment, and look at the 
situation in a clear and reasonable manner. 

“ Say something to me, dear ; do not look at me in such 
chilling silence.” 

“I do not understand; I am still confused,” said Lady Betty, 

6 


82 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


touched by the sadness of Tom’s voice, and the piteous 
supplication in his eyes as he looked upon her blank face. 
“ Tell me why you wished to leave me if you loved me, and 
why, loving me, you wished not to love me.” 

“It was because I feared I could not make you happy, the 
end of loving being marriage and life-long union. Our tastes, 
I saw, were ac variance. The whirl of life and fashion that 
you sigh to gain I thought I might sigh to quit.” 

“ Ah ! ” exclaimed Lady Betty, her eyes quickening with 
intelligent light. 

“ But that is a trifle. I can conform my tastes with yours, 
make your pleasures mine ; follow the world from London to 
Cheltenham, Cheltenham to Bath, and dress myself, if you 
will, in any extravagance that fashion invents. What will 
that matter if I love ? ” 

Lady Betty looked at Tom no longer with astonishment or 
coldness in her eyes, but in kind compassion and tender sym- 
pathy ; yet he dared not take her in his arms. 

“ Tom,” she said, after a moment’s silence, and she spoke 
with frank freedom, “Tom, I love you better than any one in 
the world, and so I will not conceal a single thought from you. 
You have made a woman of me, and in a few words taught me 
to look at the great event of a woman’s life seriously, as one 
should look at it. I have talked of marriage as a school-girl 
and a child, with no thought for the time when the orange- 
blossom fades.” 

She felt the two strong hands trembling above and below 
her fingers ; she took her disengaged hand and laid it upon the 
back of his. 

“ I have said I love you better than any one in the world — 
that may be no flattery to you,” she said with brief return to 
her customary tone of badinage; “for you have taken pains 
to show me only your least attractive friends, but I do not 
love as you love. I forget you frequently, and if I do foolish 
or ungenerous things it is not fo v your sake. ’Tis gratitude 
more than anything that animates me, a maturer form of 
cupboard love, the affection of children for those who make 
them presents and take them about to spectacles. I am 
thoughtless, hair-brained — neither wise nor experienced, yet 
I feel that if I loved as you love, and my soul were bound to a 
dead heart that absorbed the generous warmth and returned 
none, I should wish myself dead.” 

“ But yours is no dead heart, ’tis one that even now responds 
to mine ; its warmth is in this gentle hand, in your cheek, and 
moistening eye.” 


TOM PKOPOSES— LADY BETTY DISPOSES. 


83 


Lady Betty shook her head. “ You mistake my sentiment, 
said she. “ Be guided by your sense, Tom. What am I ? A 
young and untried girl. I have flesh and blood like yours, 
and one day I too may love with all my soul — wildly, 
irrationally, desperately, even to the loss of all I hold now 
most dear. And if the one I love is not my husband, what 
happiness in this world can there be for him or me P No, 
Tom, dear — for I may call you by that name and not be mis- 
understood, feeling- so tenderly towards you, sympathising 
with you, quite yearning for your happiness, as I do — it would 
be the cruellest, most heartless act of my life to accept your 
love, to give you my hand, doubting as I doubt.” 

“ Do not think of me,” Tom cried, “ or if you will, think 
only of the happiness you can give me. I ask for no more love 
than you have now. It is more than ten thousand wives have 
to give their husbands. Think only of yourself, and that in 
marrying me you secure a faithful friend whose only thought 
will be to make you happy.” 

“ And looking at it from that selfish point of view, can I 
believe that you will make me happy P ” 

u Can you doubt it P ” 

“ Yes. You are twenty times more jealous than the Moor 
in the play. You are angry if a man looks at me — though I 
do you the justice to think you would be equally angry if they 
didn’t — you look as if you would like to kill the young gentle- 
men who put up their glasses at me in the crush-room of the 
theatre, and will find a dozen excuses to avoid passing a knot 
of dandies in the park. That amuses me very much now, and 
I may tell you that I take a great delight in making you fume 
with rage against some poor harmless military gentleman, or 
over-dressed fop, but I assure you it would distress me greatly 
to be doubted if 1 were your loyal wife.” 

“ I will cure myself of jealousy — ’tis a contemptible, 
unmanly fault,” cried Tom. 

“ Do, Tom,” said Lady Betty, withdrawing her hand, and 
subtly drawing the tambour frame between herself and him, 
while he was still thinking over his own failing. “Do, and 
by the time you have overcome that weakness, if I am not 
married to somebody else, it is very possible I shall be glad to 
marry you.” 

She said this with a light laugh, and her fingers were once 
more engaged upon the tambour. 


6—2 


84 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

G-ERARD CREWE. 

Tom Talbot sat in his chamber with a book in his hand. 
Suddenly he closed the work and flung it to the other end of 
the room, albeit it was the 11 Paradise Lost ” of John Milton, 
and deserved more reverential treatment. J3ut when a man is 
disgusted with himself, Paradise itself would fail to please 
him. 

u I deserve contempt,” said he , lt for who with a spark of 
manliness would grudge a sweet girl the homage she deserves, 
or descend to mean shifts for depriving her of admiration. 
And how on earth can a woman love a man she cannot 
respect P What is the hour ? Two. I will find Mr. Crewe, 
and induce him to go with me to Park Lane this very day.” 

Tom caught up his hat — made a couple of strides towards 
the door, paused with his hand on the latch a moment, then 
turned about, looked at his legs, at his sleeves, and at the 
reflection of his face in the glass at the other end of the room 

The result of this inspection was that he made his way iuto 
the adjoining chamber, where he changed his breeches half-a- 
dozen times, tried the effect, of every coat he had in his closet, 
and spent a quarter of an hour in arranging the curls of his 
hair. 

“ There’s no reason why w^ shouldn’t start fair,” said he. 

In pursuance of this idea he entered the shop of a dealer in 
fashionable trifles, on his way to Gerard Crewe’s house, and 
demanded a walking stick of the kind most used. 

“ Ah ! this is too short by four inches ; it would do for a 
boy, but it is of no use at all to me.” 

“ I’m sorry I have none other, Sir,” said the dealer, u but 
long sticks went out of fashion last year, and short sticks are 
in. I may be able to let you have a long stick next week — if 
the fashion should change.” 

“ If it is the fashion — I’ll have it, though I have to walk 
with it like a monkey.” 

“ The stick is not used to walk with now, but to carry under 
the arm.” 

“ Ah ! then the shorter the better. A little extension of 
the fashion and one may carry one’s walking stick in the 
breeches’ pocket.” 

u Just so, Sir. We must live in hope, Sir. Eye-glasses are 
in again, Sir.” 


GERARD CREWE. 


85 


"Thank God, I can do without them.” 

"Pardon me, Sir. No one can do without a glass now. 
They are not for the wearer’s eye, but for the eye of the public, 
and are intended to hang down gracefully from the fob.” 

" Then hang me a glass from my fob.” 

" Now, Sir — there — so you look quite the go. You have a 
snuff box, I presume P ” 

" I never take snuff.” 

" Not take snuff ! Dear me, Sir, where have you been these 
last three months ? ” 

“ Give me a snuff box and some snuff,” said Tom, with a 
gulp. 

" There’s a beauty, Sir, for ten guineas — worth twelve.” 

" That will do — where is the snuff ? ” 

" The apprentice has gone out to the ’bacconist’s to buy it, 
Sir.” 

By the time the apprentice returned Tom had purchased two 
finger rings, a diamond for his cravat, and half-a-dozen seals to 
keep company with his glass, and with these acquisitions he left 
the shop, highly gratified with his purchases. 

At Gerard Crewe’s house he was informed by the servant, 
who answered his knock, that Mr. Crewe had gone to take the 
air in the park, as was his daily habitude from the hour of two 
till four, when he was not detained at home by visitors. 

Tom made his way to the park, where he was fortunate 
enough to meet his new acquaintance — whose tall, graceful 
figure he detected in the distance the moment he passed the 
King’s Gate. He was alone, walking with his hands crossed at 
his back, and looking from side to side of the alley as he passed 
slowly along. 

Tom pursued and came up to him as he stopped in front of a 
thorn whose buds were just pushing through the sheaf. 

The greeting of the men was warm for those who had so 
recently become acquainted. 

"I hoped to meet you to-day,” said Gerard, "indeed, I hoped 
to see you yesterday, but was disappointed. You were not at 
Brooks’ last night.” 

"No. You were?” 

" I am there every night.” 

" You like play.” 

"On the contrary, [ dislike it at much as any man can.” 

"That is a strange reason for frequenting a gaming-house.” 

" Not at all ; for it is because I dislike play that I win. 
Success or failure never excites me. I play with unvarying 
equanimity, and that gives me an advantage over the generality 


86 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


of players. I should not have won your money had our tempers 
been alike.” 

Tom looked at his companion and was silent. Gerard, with 
perfect calm upon his pale thin, face, walked along with his 
hands still behind him. After a few moments’ silence, he 
continued : 

“ Mr. Talbot, I am a gambler — not in the ordinary sense. I 
do not play from infatuation, weakness, inclination. I have no 
such excuse— I play from purely mercenary motives — and the 
only difference between me and the common wretch who plays 
with three cards at a fair is, that I use no fraud.” 

“ Why have you told me this P ” asked Tom. 

“ Because, in the grasp of your hand, in the expression of 
your eyes, I have found a warmth something more than 
common ; because if we are to be friends, it is necessary you 
should know at the outset, what sort of man I am.” 

11 Your honesty, at least, commands respect ; and there’s my 
hand again, Sir, as a proof that my friendship is not lessened 
by your candour. For a truth I cannot like the manner in 
which you live, but since one fixes no blame on the lawyer who 
saves the man who deserves to be hanged, and hangs the man 
who ought to be spared, I see no reason for being too critical 
upon you. "Yet for all that, I wish you were of another trade, 
and it seems to me that the faculty which makes you success- 
ful at the gaming-table would make you a creditable name in a 
higher vocation — ’tis a thousand pities ” — Tom paused, to muse 
in silence with his thumb and finger on his chin — his eyes upon 
the ground. Gerard seemed unwilling to influence him by a 
word. 

" Y ou would make an admirable general,” said Tom, looking 
up suddenly. 

“ But a bad soldier.” 

“ True, and that would hinder you from rising — even were it 
possible to rise — to such a rank. Your abilities would serve 
you as a financier, a banker.” 

For response, Gerard stopped by the park paling, and turning 
to a soot-grimed sheep browsing by the side, said : 

“ God made you as good as other sheep. On the downs 
mayhap you would be white, certainly you would be healthier 
and happier, but inexorable fate brought you to London, and 
set you to graze on a pasture foul with soot and mud, poor devil ! 
and one is puzzled to know whether you were not by nature 
born a black sheep. I have thought of what I might have been 
and what I am so often and so long that I am weary of the 
theme.” 


GERARD CREWE. 


87 


" I don’t believe in fate governing a man,” said Tom, bluntly. 
u If a sheep had the faculties of a man he would give his mastei 
the slip and scamper back to the downs. But there is no 
reason because a sheep cannot behave like a man, that a man 
should behave like a sheep. It isn’t English to be a slave with- 
out making a stout fight for liberty.” 

“ Can you give a coward courage P ” asked Gerard, quietly. 

“ Mr. Crewe — Gerard, I have said what I thought freely to 
you, for my feeling towards you is not of a lukewarm kind. 
’Tis our custom to say unpleasant things to our friends, and 
make ourselves agreeable to those we care not two pins for. 
But if I said that you were cowardly, I refuse to believe that 
you are a coward.” 

“ Yet I am. Not physically perhaps. I am too cold for that. 
I felt no more agitation in walking along this park with my 
seconds to meet Henry Grattan, than I feel in walking with you 
now. But morally, I am a poltroon, and to one of your robust 
constitution, that kind of feebleness will seem more despicable 
even than the other. I dare not face the possibilities that must 
attend relinquishing my present mode of existence.” 

“ What are they P ” 

“ The possibility of being compelled to serve in a draper’s 
shop — lying to sell a few yards of stuff to a suspicious woman, 
or to sit from morning till night at a desk in a dreary olRce — 
leading the life of a broken horse that grinds a mill and stops 
only to eat and to sleep. The possibility of having to eat coarse 
food, to wear unpleasant clothes, to live with vulgar people, to 
sacrifice the delicate pleasures of art, and music, and literature, 
to be parsimonious and niggardly, of avoiding one’s creditors, 
of grudging half-a-crown to a servant ” 

“ Enough ! You have said enough to convince me that a 
man may be as wretched with three hundred a year, as another 
with nothing at all.” 

Tom turned the conversation to a general subject which 
allowed him to pursue an undercurrent of thought. He was 
not narrow in his judgment of men. For Gerard, he had a 
liking undiminished by the revelation he had chosen to make. 
He divided men into two classes, those who had faults and con- 
cealed them, and those who had faults and confessed them ; 
and he preferred the latter. Nevertheless, he could not make 
up his mind to carry out his intention of introducing Gerard to 
Lady Betty. Gerard might be a gentleman, and as good as any 
who did not pursue his vocation, but he was a gamester, and 
in that very word there was something which made it distaste- 
ful to associate him with the girl he loved. Accident disposed 


88 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


the event, for while he was still in dubitation, they turned into 
the promenade, and came face to face with Mrs. St. Cyr and 
Lady Betty. 

Mrs. St. Cyr stopped, and after a glance at Gerard Crewe, 
gave Tom her hand with a more gracious smile than she had 
accorded him for many days, and then made a profound courtesy 
to the companion whom he was thus compelled to introduce. 

“ Our chariot wheel has broken a spoke : so we are com- 
pelled to take the air on foot,” Mrs. St. Cyr explained — “ which 
is inconvenient, having no escort. However, I trust, Mr. Tal- 
bot, that if you and Mr. Crewe have nothing more engaging on 
hand, you will remedy the default.” 

The gentlemen replied with a suitable compliment, and the 
ladies resumed their walk, flanked, Mrs. St. Cyr by Tom Talbot, 
Lady Betty by Gerard Crewe. 

Mrs. St. Cyr engaged Tom in a personal conversation to the 
end that Gerard should have the exclusive pleasure of Lady 
Betty’s society, but this did not prevent Tom from making use 
of those arms which he had so recently acquired for the pur- 
pose of winning the admiration of Lady Betty. He flourished 
his cane, rattled the seals at his fob, and did not forget to use 
his snuff-box, giving it a very pretty tap before returning it to 
his pocket. Mrs. St. Cyr smiled approval, and whispered low: 

“ Quite the bel air , I assure you, Mr. Talbot.” 

Highly flattered, Tom repeated the application, and would 
have had no reason to regret his elegant performance, but that 
Lady Betty, turning towards him, put a question at the very 
moment when his features were paralysed by a vain effort to 
sneeze. 

When they came to the end of the promenade and changed 
their positions 1o return, Lady Betty contrived to place her 
mamma next to Gerard, and to fall back in their rear with 
Tom. 

“ This is kind of you,” murmured Tom, pressing the hand 
that, Lady Betty laid on his arm to her side. “ You have made 
me happy.” 

“ ’Tis more than you deserve. Not only would you deprive 
me of seeing your charming friend, but your ratan, your seals, 
your tobacco-box — everything that you know I adore, you con- 
ceal from me. Cruel man ! If I had only seen you taking 
snuff before you made your proposal ! — ” 

Tom did not reply to Lady Betty’s badinage. He saw nothing 
to laugh at in being rejected. 


SOUCI ET SANS SOUCL 


69 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

SOUCI ET SANS SOUCI. 

“ Gerard,” said Tom, some fourteen or fifteen days after the 
introduction in the park, “ you must come with me to Park 
Lane.” 

“ And why must I, my dear Tom P 9 

“ Because I have not the ingenuity and impudence to invent 
any further excuses for you. Every day, for the past fortnight 
I have been charged to bring you to dinner, to lunch, to tea, to 
look at the china, and what not, and every day I have told a 
lie to extenuate your refusal.” 

“ A little more practice, and you will be perfect in the art,” 
said Gerard, laughing. 

“ On the contrary — I get more nervous every day, and stam- 
mer over my fabrication to such an extent, that no one could 
believe me. And now it is thought that I purposely keep you 
away from my friends — from a jealous motive.” 

Gerard laughed again ; then grew grave. Tom continued : 

“ I know the delicate feeling that has kept you from the 
house, but you may waive all objections on that score, for this 
morning, failing to find any plausible pretence for your absence, 
I ventured to hint the truth to Mrs. St. Cyr, who no sooner 
heard that you were a gamester than she burst out into an 
eulogy of gaming and placed you on a level at once with the 
finest gentleman in Europe — intending that of course as a com- 
pliment to you. I assure you that instead of regarding your 
profession as a disadvantage, she looks upon it as the necessary 
qualification of a fine gentleman. Knowing what you are, she 
is more than ever anxious to became intimately acquainted 
with you.” 

“ And you, Tom, hoping to make Lady Betty your wife — 
are you willing that I should associate with her P ” 

“ There is but one answer to that,” said Tom, and he held 
out his hand to his friend. 

The following morning Gerard accompanied Tom to Park 
Lane, and from that time he became a frequent visitor. 

He did not attempt to conceal from Tom that he visited Mrs. 
St. Cyr for the pleasure of Lady Betty’s society ; and Tom did 
his best to accept his position with manful resignation — albeit 
that position became more difficult to sustain — his trials harder 
to bear each succeeding day. 

The weather continuing fine, the little party walked fre- 


90 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


quently in the park, and scarcely ever met without Mrs. St. Cyr 
adding one or two names to the rapidly increasing list of 
acquaintances. For Gerard was well known to the fashion- 
able loungers there, and Mrs. St. Cyr obtained introductions to 
them by plain, straightforward audacity. 

“ Here comes the gentleman who bowed to you the day 
before yesterday, Mr. Crewe — I beg you will introduce me,” 
Mrs. St. Cyr would say, and Gerard had no option but to do 
as was demanded of him. The audacity, however, was never 
resented, for the gentlemen were only too delighted to have 
the opportunity of speaking to pretty Lady Betty. So the proud 
mother began to experience the delights she had anticipated : 
and on the day a real live Marquis paid a visit to them and 
made eyes at Lady Betty, whenever mamma pretended to look 
another way, she felt that her cup of mortal happiness was 
well nigh full. 

It was only natural that Tom should sink in her estimation 
as others rose ; indeed it may be said in her extenuation that 
he was less entertaining than he had been, and suffered by 
comparison with the fashionable young bucks who presented 
themselves in their most agreeable aspect. 

u I protest that Mr. Talbot is gettingperfectly objectionable,” 
she said to Lady Betty. “ He is always three or four days 
behind the fashion, and when he wears a new coat he seems 
ashamed of it. The first day he wore his diamond ring he 
turned it round to hide the stone. He is perfectly incompre- 
hensible ! and then his face is sometimes the colour of parch- 
ment — his eyes dull — and his nose is inclined to be red. 1 He 
cannot help that *■ — did you say. My love, what nonsense you 
talk. We are not barbarians. And what would be the use of 
science and discovery, if one could not remedy the defects of 
nature. If London does not agree with him, I wish he would 
go away. No, my dear, I did not say so two months ago, it is 
very true ; but Mr. Talbot did not require change then. He 
was bright, and cheerful, and amiable. Now, he says nothing 
— or if he does it is so extremely sarcastic and unpleasant, that 
one wishes he would do the other thing — and whenever we 
have a visitor he is sullen, he scowls, and his complexion grows 
worse than ever 

“Well, he may do his utmost to be agreeable — I will not 
contradict that — and he may be faithful and kind. I don’t for- 
get the presents he gave us on New Year’s day, but he can give 
you nothing more before your birthday, and that is not until 
the autumn — as for me, one does not have birthdays at my age 
—and so I repeat, it would be better for him if he carried out 


SOUCI ET SANS SOUCL 


91 


his intention of going abroad for a time ; and I do not. think in 
speaking of him you ought to call him 'dear Tom/ 

" Two or three gentlemen have asked me what relation he is 
to you in consequence of your addressing him as 'Tom/ and 
his position here must seem altogether anomalous and un- 
pleasant to our visitors. ' Tonr is far too familiar, and 
encourages the young man with hopes that are not likely to 
be realised; Mr. Talbot or Thomas would sound better, my 
love. You might suggest in an amiable manner, of course, 
that a little change would do him good 

"My dear, who does want to discard old friends when they 
cease to be useful — what a preposterous idea ! Not I, certainly. 
But I cannot consider Mr. Talbot an old friend ; he is not more 
than three-and -thirty, and we have only known him two 
months or so. It is entirely for his own good that I wish him 
to leave us for a while — say until July — your birthday is in 
August 

" Well, I declare, that slipped my memory — he is useful 
when there are four. But I object to that term ' harpooning/ 
sweetest. If I take Mr. Talbot’s arm in order that you may 
walk with Mr. Crewe or another, that cannot be called har- 
pooning. ’Tis a vulgar phrase. 

" To be sure he does take the place of a brother, and with- 
out some such kind of attendant, we could not go about as we 
do, and accept attentions from gentlemen we know so slightly 
— there is something in that. 

" And then he is liberal and suffers us to pay for nothing, 
and the expenses attending play-going are more than I can 
afford — the tradesfolk are quite irritating in their demands for 
payment. ' Cash will oblige/ is wrote at the foot of every bill 
that comes in 

" Ah, well! perhaps it will be better to say nothing to Mr. 
Talbot about leaving England at present. Don’t laugh, my 
love. I was thinking how unhappy he would be to leave us.” 

And so poor Tom was tolerated by Mrs. St. Cyr, and per- 
mitted to make himself useful — to take a back seat in his own 
box — to carry the ladies’ shawls and cloaks — to escort Mrs. St. 
Cyr, while one more favoured conducted Lady Betty, and to 
pay whenever it was possible. More than once he secretl y dis- 
charged a tradesman’s bill, an obligation which Mrs. St. Cyr 
carefully overlooked rather than wound his feelings by 
acknowledgment, or to encounter Lady Betty’s indignant 
protest. 

He was not happy — far from it. It would have been well 


92 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


for him if he had been banished from Park Lane. A few 
months of travel might have restored partly his old equanimity 
and indifference. But what lover ever seeks forgetfulness of 
his woes ? 

Lady Betty was familiar with him, playful with him, 
neglectful of him, and occasionally compassionate to him. But 
the girl was brimful of life and high spirits ; she could not. be 
sentimental — far less serious for more than five minutes at a 
time. Lady Betty Sans-souci, Tom called her. How could 
she be to him other than she was, being so thoughtless, so 
sensitive to pleasurable emotion, so delighted with variety, so 
intoxicated with flattery, and the glitter and excitement of the 
life around her ? 

Tom struggled gallantly through all to suppress the jealous 
revolt of his nature. He knew that his fault was jealousy, 
and he bravely set himself not to subdue the object of his 
jealousy, but to subdue himself ; to be generous to the girl he 
loved, and bear his misfortunes manfully. The tear that Lady 
Betty one night shed for him was merited. For the successful 
effort of a strong man to suffer and not to cry out — to put up 
with neglect, and conceal his sorrow is more touching than the 
most eloquent poetry. It is more pathetic than death itself, 
for is it not harder to live and endure, than to give up one’s 
breath and cease to suffer — to fight than to fly ? 

Tom was a hero — not of the perfect immaculate kind, but of 
the order of English gentlemen. He had faults, not a few — 
but his virtues outweighed them, and sent that end of the 
scale to kick the beam. Few of those who knew him re- 
cognised his heroic qualities. It was significant of his lovable- 
ness that his friends at the very offset called him “ Tom.” 
There are men who are never known by their Christian name ; 
they are to be pitied and — mistrusted. 

■ Lady Betty admired him for his virtues — his strength and 
honesty — and. loved him for his faults — and they formed the 
larger constituent in the sum of qualities for which she 
valued him. It was a fault to be jealous — a fault to submit 
to her neglect, a fault to forgive the slights she put upon him, 
a fault to patiently follow her in the path which was all 
rose petals for her, all thorns for him, a fault to submit to the 
selfish tyranny of mamma — but did not each of these faults 
carry a proof of his love for her that was ’wanting in all the 
compliment and flattery of the brilliant train of admirers ^ 


THE INVITATION. 


95 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE INVITATION. 

One afternoon in the beginning of April, Tom arrived at the 
house in Park Lane, carrying two bouquets. He had er gaged 
a box at the opera, and the bouquets were for Lady Betty and 
Mrs. St. Cyr. Lady Betty was always grateful for flowers, 
and never failed to reward her lover for a bouquet with five 
minutes’ sweetness ; and so, expectant of happiness, Tom ran 
up-stairs, and entered the drawing-room with a light foot and 
a cheerful face. Gerard Crewe was sitting with the ladies, 
who were talking with much excitement. 

“ Oh, Tom ! what do you think P ” exclaimed Lady Betty, 
springing up from her seat and clapping her hands, as he 
entered. 

“ Not the slightest idea,” answered Tom, standing still with 
the bouquets in his hands. 

“ Why, Mr. Crewe has obtained invitations for us from Mrs. 
Walker, for her mask ball.” 

Tom turned to a side-table and laid down the bouquets, 
conscious that they could claim no attention in the presence 
of this strong centre attraction — in fact he received never a 
word of thanks for them — saying as he did so : 

“ Gerard is fortunate.” 

“An invitation for Lady Betty and me,” said Mrs. St. Cyr, 
in order that Tom should at once understand that he was not 
included. 

“ I am sorry I could not get one for you also, Tom,” said 
Gerard. “ But you know how difficult they are to procure for 
Mrs. Walker’s entertainments at all times, and this is to be 
especially brilliant,” said Gerard. 

“ The Prince of Wales is to be there, and the Marchioness 
of Donegal, and Mrs. Eitz-Herbert,” said Mrs. St. Cyr 
impressively. 

“ You are going, of course,” said Tom to Gerard. 

“ Yes. The ladies will go under my protection, and be in- 
troduced by me.” 

Tom seated himself, and said quietly, raising his eyes to 
Lady Betty : 

“ I hope you will enjoy yourself very much.” 

He found that she had become suddenly grave. In her own 
delight, she had not thought how the prospect of her going to 
a ball without him would affect him. There was regret in her 


94 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


eyes as she looked at him, and she said with tender earnest* 
ness, taking a chair close beside him : 

“ I am so sorry that you are not going with me, Tom,” and 
she just touched his hand as it rested on the arm of his chair. 

His face lit up with gratitude in the moment, and he 
murmured a few words which were unintelligible to every ear 
but Lady Betty’s. A vocabulary of three words is sufficient 
for lovers. 

Mrs. St. Cyr was already discussing the great question of 
dress, in which Lady Betty quickly joined, and in the next 
half hour the relative merits of every costume in Europe, 
Asia, and the northern part of Africa were argued pro and con. 
A temporary diversion was caused by the announcement of 
dinner, when Mrs. St. Cyr rose promptly and took possession 
of Tom’s arm, while Gerard of necessity followed with Lady 
Betty. 

The conversation was renewed as soon as the party were 
seated at table, and continued with such vivacity, that it was 
late when the ladies were ready to go to the theatre ; never- 
theless Mrs. St. Cyr ordered her coachman to drive round by 
Stanhope Street in order that they might see Mrs. Walker’s 
house, which stood at the corner, and which was to be thrown 
open for the reception of masks on the first Monday in June. 

The performance had commenced when Mrs. St. Cyr, in a 
gorgeous turban with nodding plumes, took her place in the 
front of the box with Lady Betty. 

“ I declare the Prince is in the Royal box,” said Mrs. St. 
Cyr, in an excited whisper ; “ and there is Mrs. Fitz-Herbert, 
and who is that very distinguished-looking gentleman with 
him, Mr. Crewe?” 

“ My Lord Castlereigh,” answered Gerard. 

Tom was disposing of the ladies’ mantles at the back of the 
box. 

li Bring your chair between us, Mr. Crewe,” said Mrs. St. 
Cyr. “ Be careful of my fur if you please, Mr. Talbot. How 
charming the Prince looks — what a dear man ! and to think 
we shall have the felicity of seeing him dance. I am told he 
performs both the Irish and Scotch steps to a marvel. My 
darling, look straight before you, and keep perfectly still. 
The Prince has his spy-glass up, and is looking at you. Oh, 
I feel all of a flutter — my scent bottle if you please, Mr. 
Talbot. There’s a gentleman in the box on the right looking 
straight across at you, my love — who can he be ? My spy- 
glass if you please, Mr. Talbot. There’s Lord Forsith bowing. 

“ My love, your front tuft wants a touch on the right. The 


THE INVITATION. 


96 


Prince is looking again. Ah, there’s the Marquis Dolgelly in 
the omnibus wanting to bow. My bouquet if you please, 
Mr. Talbot. Here's all the rank and fashion to be sure. 
What a charming opera ! I never enjoyed one so much in my 
life. The Prince can’t keep his eyes off you, I protest. Oh, I 
adore the opera — such sentiment, such — what is it all about, 
Mr Talbot P you understand the Italian.” 

In this manner Mrs. St. Cyr gave herself up to the delights 
of music, and continued to chat in a tone sufficiently loud to 
prevent any one in the box following a bar of melody until a 
tap at the door of the box announced visitors, and Tom, in his 
customary function of useful friend, opened the door and ad- 
mitted three gentlemen who had come to pay their respects to 
Lady Betty. When they left, Gerard rose and withdrew, 
giving his chair to Tom, with a significant look of sympathy. 

“ I hope you are enjoying the music,” whispered Tom to 
Lady Betty. 

“ To tell you the truth, I have heard nothing but mamma’s 
voice yet awhile,” said she. 

“ My darling, the Prince has his spy-glass up again. Mr. 
Talbot, will you see if the door is closed.” 

“ The door is perfectly fast, madam,” answered Tom, tartly, 
without moving, and glaring across the house at the Prince. 

“ What an air the Prince has,” exclaimed Mrs. St. Cyr. 

“Yes, and a very unpleasant air for a man who has a suffer- 
ing wife, and should set an example of fidelity and honour to 
the people he is to govern.” 

“ Mr. Talbot ! I beg you will not intrude your republican 
notions here. There are circumstances in connection with 
that unfortunate marriage which should be hushed up and 
concealed.” 

“ I am precisely of your opinion, Mrs. St. Cyr,” answered 
Tom, still scowling at the Prince, who was now toying with 
Mrs. Fitz-Herbert s glove. 

Further discussion was precluded by the fresh arrival of 
visitors, who, occupying the front of the box, left Tom at liberty 
to amuse himself with his own reflections at the back. 

It was useless endeavouring to overcome the discontent 
which agitated him now. He fancied that he was justified in 
regarding the course of events with mistrust and suspicion. 
It was not the laughter of Lady Betty listening to the wit of 
her admirers that agitated him, but the frequent observation 
cast upon her by the finest gentleman and the greatest libertine 
in Europe. He could not contemplate with composure the 
prospect of Lady Betty meeting the Prince at the mask-ball. 


96 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


He knew the license accorded to those wearing masks, and his 
jealous love for Lady Betty stimulated his imagination to con- 
ceive as probable a thousand impossible accidents which might 
happen to her, and what protection would the giddy young 
girl have in her foolish mother ? worse than none. When the 
Prince again took up his opera-glass, Tom, tormented to a 
degree bordering on desperation, quitted the box hurriedly, 
unable to stand there and see the privileged rake fix his greedy 
eyes upon Lady Betty. 

He was walking in the corridor, with his eyes on the ground, 
completely unconscious of the people he met and passed, when 
Gerard came to his side. 

“ What on earth is the matter, Tom ? Your face is the colour 
of ash, and your hand is cold as ice. Come and take some 
cognac,” said he. 

“ Cognac will do me no good. Never mind me, Gerard, go 
to the ladies.” 

“ Are they alone ? ” 

“ No, there are three chattering idiots to amuse them.” 

“What is the matter?” Gerard repeated, quietly. “Out 
with it, Tom ; you’re not jealous of idiots ? ” 

“ Gerard, can anything be done to prevent Lady Betty 
meeting the Prince of Wales at Mrs. Walker’s mask-ball ? ” 

Gerard was silent a minute, less astonished by his disease — 
for he had seen for sometime what was goingon in his friend’s 
mind — than perplexed as to the remedy to be given. 

“ Yes,” he said, ’’the actual cards of admission are not yet 
in my possession ; I will tear them up when I get them, if you 
will. But first of all you shall come with me into the air, you 
shiver as if you had an ague upon you. Wait here a moment.” 

Gerard left his side, and Tom advanced to an open door, 
from which he commanded a view of the boxes on either side 
of the house. Lady Betty was looking through her glasses, 
and it seemed to him that she was looking at the Prince, which 
was not improbable. The Prince was looking on the stage, for 
a wonder, but that did not greatly lessen Tom’s perturbation : 
it was enough that Lady Betty’s glass was fixed on him. 

“ Come,” said Gerard, “ here is your hat ; put it on. I have 
told Parkes to wait in the box until you return. Now, Tom, let 
us talk of this affair seriously. I)o you actually wish that 
Lady Betty shall not go to this ball ? ” 

“ I cannot bear the thought of that libertine approaching her. 
He has been looking at her ever since she entered the box, and 
she at him.” 

“ What is more natural P She is the prettiest woman in the 


WHO SHOULD WEAR A DIADEM BUT SHE? 91 


house, and he the prettiest gentleman, as the phrase goes. 
Wnat then P I do not wish to defend the Prince’s character, 
but I ask you, is he worse because his faults are public, than 
dozens of the men who can keep their faults secret, and must be 
met in any ball-room or assembly P Look at the possibilities 
of the case from the most extreme point of view. Supposing 
the Prince dances with Miss St. Cyr — which is one of the most 
improbable things I can imagine, will she in consequence love 

J rou less, or be less worthy of your love ? If she deserves your 
ove she will always be loyal to you, but any restriction you 
put upon her actions must lessen her esteem for you, and so 
shake her loyalty.” 

They had entered a tavern close by the theatre, and there 
Tom sat in apathetic silence, while Gerard used argument to 
bring him to reason. At length he shook off the mood, and 
rousing himself, said : 

“ Say no more, Gerard ; my prejudice is not to be cured by 
appeals to my reason, for that is paralysed by these paroxysms 
of jealousy. My own conscience accuses and condemns me of 
something worse than folly. When the fit is upon me I am 
the slave of my evil passion, a slave meaner to my own percep- 
tion, perhaps, than to yours. Let us return to the theatre ; 
see, my hand is firm again. The madman has his lucid intervals. 
Nothing shall hinder Lady Betty following her own inclinations, 
while they are harmless to herself.” 

“ Unhappily,” said Gerard, laying his hand on Tom’s shoulder, 
“you are not always capable of judging whether they are 
harmless or not.” 

“ Then you shall be my guide, Gerard. When I am in 
doubt I will come to you.” 

Gerard pressed his friend’s hand encouragingly, but he said 
to himself : 

“ My poor Tom ! when can you be in doubt ? 1 Trifles light 
as air are to the jealous confirmation strong as proofs of holy 

writ/ * 


CHAPTER XX. 

WHO SHOULD WEAB A DIADEM BUT SHE f 

The forthcoming ball was the sole topic of conversation at 
Park Lane. Every visitor was taken into Mrs. St. Cyr’s con- 
fidence, his advice accepted with unequivocal expressions of 
approval, and discarded the moment a fresh proposition was 

7 


98 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


advanced. The house was littered from the lumber-room to 
the kitchen fire-place with plates of fashions and “ elegant 
designs.” It was noticeable that each new adviser attempted 
to out-do his predecessor by the gorgeousness of his fancy, and 
that as the ornaments proposed advanced from beads and paste 
to pearls and diamonds, Mrs. St. Cyr grew more thoughtful 
and dissatisfied. 

However, at the end of a week the dressmaker pointed out 
the necessity of an immediate decision, and then in a grand 
final consultation it was agreed to adopt Gerard’s suggestion, 
that Mrs. St. Cyr should represent Night, and Lady Betty 
Morning. The great recommendation of this dress to Mrs. St. 
Cyr seemed to be that, she could wear her plume of feathers, 
which might be dyed for the occasion at a trifling expense. 

The dressmaker made her calculations, and speedily furnished 
Mrs. St. Cyr with a list of the materials — silk, satin, muslin, 
fine crape, sprigs of flowers and diamonds — with which she must 
be supplied within a couple of days. 

Mrs. St. Cyr took the list, and having jotted down the 
possible cost of each article, and summed them up in a grand 
total, she hurried up to her bed-room, had an attack of the 
palpitations, and could speak to no one for the rest of the day. 

The next morning when Tom called to inquire after her 
health, he found Mrs. St. Cyr alone in the drawing-room. 
She rose from her seat and greeted him with effusive warmth. 

“ I knew you would be the first to call upon me after my 
indisposition,” she said. “ You are ever so thoughtful, and 
considerate and kind; and I have sent Lady Betty into the 
sitting-room because I wished to have you all to myself for five 
minutes. It is so seldom now that I can have the pleasure of 
a little confidential conversation with a real friend. One’s 
time is so occupied by visitors, acquaintances with whom one 
can have no sympathy whatever. We have quite decided 
about the dresses for the ball; Lady Betty is to wear a skirt 
of pink and saffron, covered with fine muslin looped up with 
sprigs of flower-buds studded with diamonds — Morning, you 
know. The pink and yellow sky with fleecy clouds, and 
opening flowers sprinkled with dew, is the fancy.” 

“ A poetical and pretty fancy.” 

‘Nothing to be compared with your idea, Mr. Talbot ; but 
still Lady Betty is imperious, as you know. I shall wear a 
simple robe of the dark ultra-marine spangled with stars, a 
plume fastened with a crescent, a wreath of poppies, a dark 
veil gathered in with a spray of paste to represent a comet ; * 
she paused for a moment and then recommenced : “ You have 


WHO SHOULD WEAR A DIADEM BUT SHE ? 99 


noticed, I have no doubt, with, some surprise, that I have been 
ill at ease for the past few day, Mr. Talbot, have you not P ” 

“ .Nothing to excite surprise, madam, considering how much 
you have had to think on.” 

“ I have had something to agitate me, which I was bound 
to conceal even from my own daughter, but I should feel 
myself wanting in gratitude if I made any reservation from 
you, who have always manifested such friendship for us.” 

“I assure you I have no curiosity,” said Tom, eagerly; “I 
beg you not to open any subject painful to yourself.’* 

“ But I want your advice, my dear Mr. Talbot.” 

“ If I can be of any help to you the case is altered.” 

“It is your advice only that I ask for, but I must beg as a 
favour that you will not mention a word of what I say to Lady 
Betty — she would never forgive me. You know how proud 
she is, and would I am sure refuse to let me accept any — any 
advice you may give me.” 

Tom bowed acquiescence, and Mrs. St. Cyr proceeded. 

“My property is so bound up that I can draw only two 
hundred pounds a quarter for my requirements. My expenses 
in London exceed my expectations, and the tradesmen demand 
cash payments, as we are only recently established here. To 
satisfy their claims I had spent nearly all of the money I 
received at the spring quarter before we received the invitation 
to Mrs. Walker’s ball, and I find myself with no more than 
sufficient to supply our absolute necessities. In this extremity 
I wrote to Dr. Blandly begging him to let me have a quarter’s 
payment in advance. He refused, I then wrote asking if he 
would grant me a loan, taking as security a written instrument 
empowering him to appropriate my furniture and china at my 
death. Again he politely but firmly refused to assist me.” 

“Mrs. St. Cyr,” said Tom, greatly embarrassed, “I beg you 
will not enter into these details. You may spare yourself and 
me unnecessary pain by telling me at once what assistance you 
require.” 

“ My dear Mr. Talbot, you know all, and all I ask of you is — 
what am I to do ? ” 

“ Will you tell me how much the costumes will cost ?” 

Mrs. St. Cyr hesitated a moment, afraid to mention the 
grand total, and then for answer took from her pocket the 
piece of paper on which she had made her calculations and 
handed it to him to read. Without looking at it he slipped it 
into his pocket and merely said : 

“I am going in the City now; I shall return in two h^urs, 
when I hope to be able to allay your anxiety.” 


7—2 


100 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


Mrs. St. Cyr accompanied him to the door with a thousand 
broken sentences of protest, of gratitude, and apology, and 
finished, as he hastily withdrew, with a deep sigh— partly of 
satisfaction, partly of regret. 

“ Had I only known beforehand,” she murmured, “ I should 
certainly not have put down everything at the lowest possible 
price, nor should I have sent that plume to the dyer’s/ 

That was not the only error she had committed, for when 
Tom came to open the piece of paper on which Mrs. St. Cyr 
had written her estimate, he read, in the bold, legible hand of 
Doctor Blandly, these words : 

“ Madam, 

“ I decline to accept your proposal, which I consider both 
senseless and wicked. 

“ Your servant, 

“ Blandly.” 

This was the polite refusal referred to by Mrs. St. Cyr. 

At Lincoln’s Inn Tom procured notes sufficient to cover the 
requirements of Mrs. St. Cyr, and from thence he went into 
Cheapside and gave orders to a jeweller’s to make a coronet of 
stones to represent an aurora. 

“ There’s not a gem will sparkle like my Lady Betty’s eyes 
when she sees my present,” he said to himself as he left the 
shop ; and indulging his fancy with a picture of Lady Betty in 
her happiness, he stepped along lightly. He had a habit of 
repeating a phrase again and again as he walked, while his 
thoughts played about a central object, and these were the 
words he said to himself as he trudged from St. Paul’s to 
Piccadilly : 

“ Who should wear a diadem but she ? ” 

At the corner of Park Lane he stopped beside a butcher, 
who was gazing at an approaching party of equestrians — two 
gentlemen and a lady, with servants in their rear. The lady 
was Lady Betty, the gentlemen fashionable acquaintances who, 
in their visits, treated Tom with tacit contempt. 

Lady Betty was laughing, the young bucks were simpering* 
They did not see Tom ; he was unnoticeable enough standing 
there in his plain dress beside the butcher. They passed him, 
turned the corner, and went off in a canter at Lady Betty’s 
command. Tom heard her voice. 

He watched until her pretty figure was lost to his sight, and 
then he turned away with a sigh, walking now with heavy 
steps and a heavy heart to the house where he had hoped to 
find her and catch a smile. 


THE NIGHT OF THE BALL. 


101 


u They will he at the hall, perhaps ; and mayhe now they 
are arranging to dance with her,” he said to himself. 

It occurred to him that if he chose to withhold the notes he 
carried in his pocket, she could not go to the ball and dance 
with his rivals. But his better genius ruled his heart that 
morning, and Mrs. St. Cyr got the notes. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

THE NIGHT OF THE BALL. 

Lady Betty was dressed and waiting in her mamma’s bed- 
room, while that lady vainly endeavoured to get her foot into 
a shoe several sizes smaller than her foot. 

“ I know I told him to make them small, hut I didn’t tell 
him to make them too small,” said Mrs. St. Cyr, pettishly ; “ I 
can’t go without shoes, that’s certain, and I have no others. 
I have got my toes in, that’s one comfort, though the pain is 
most excruciating. A knock at the door P Come in. No, 
wait ! Who’s there ? ” 

“I,” answered Tom, from the outside. “ Gerard waits, and 
the carriage is at the door.” 

“ Tell him I shall not keep him a moment. I have only to 
get on my shoes, and one is nearly half on already. I shan’t 
he ten minutes. My darling, I can never get them on.” To 
the heated maid, “ Pull, you stupid thing, pull ! ” 

Presently, Lady Betty, unable to assist, and her stock of ad- 
vice exhausted, left the room to descend to the drawing-room. 

Tom was sitting on the stairs. 

“ Are you ready ? ” he asked, slipping one hand behind him. 

“ Quite. You have the first view : what do you think of 
me P ” 

“ You are beautiful ! ” he answered in a murmur. “ But the 
light is insufficient here ; will you come down to the dining- 
room.” 

“ Why not the drawing-room ? ” 

“ Gerard is there.” She looked at him, laughed low, and 
laying her hand on his arm, said : 

“ We must go past the door silently, or he will be jealous, 
too.” 

They stole past the drawing-room door, Lady Betty with 
her red nether lip under her pearly teeth, and an expression 
of innocent wickedness in her lively eyes. 


102 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


“ Now, what do you think of me P ” she asked again, as they 
came into the light of the dining-room, and closed the 
door. 

“ You, or your dress ? ” asked Tom. 

11 Both — individually and separately.” 

“ There are no words rich enough to express what I think of 
your beauty ; but your costume seems to me imperfect. Some- 
thing should crown the perfect brow.” 

“Ah!” said Lady Betty, with a sigh. “I thought of a 
tiara — but mamma pleaded poverty. I did think of the light 
with which Aurora’s head is represented.” 

“ So did I,” said Tom, bringing his hand from behind him, 
and putting a large case in Lady Betty’s hands. 

She opened it, looked at it in breathless surprise and delight 
for a minute, then lifted her eyes to Tom’s face, and the next 
moment — laid the box on the table and burst into tears. 

“ What is the matter, dear girl ? ” asked Tom, in terror. 

She did not reply. A girl does not make fine speeches when 
her heart is full, and sobs rise choking in her throat. 

“ Dear Betty — what moves you so ? ” he asked again. 

“ Your heart,” sob, “ is too — too good,” sob, “ dear Tom, and 
I — I am a” — sob, “ selfish girl — I know I am” sob — “and I 
think only of my own happiness, and forget my dear ” — sob, 
“ dear — dearest friend.” 

She came close to him, suffering him to put his arm around 
her and wipe the tears from her eyes with his handkerchief, 
as he said soothingly : 

“ Come, Betty dear, smile. I bought the toy to please you, 
not to make you cry.” 

“ I wish with all my heart you were going with me, Tom,” 
he said, still looking grave. 

He looked down upon her sweet face, then bent and pressed 
a kiss upon her waving hair. It was the passionate kiss of a 
lover, but it imparted no more emotion to her than a mother’s 
caress. Another moment’s regretful silence, and then her eyes 
wandered to the table where she had deposited the gift, and 
she smiled again. It was yet April with her. 

He released her, and she took the diadem — set it on her 
head, and looking at herself in the glass, gave a deep sigh of 
satisfaction. 

“ ’Tis charming,” she said. “ I must go and show it to 
mamma at once.” 

“ Can’t you wait here till she comes down ? ” 

“ It is getting so late, Tom — and mamma must be hurried. 
Poor soul, she has to put on a pair of shoes, and the two are 


TILE NIGHT OF THE BALL. 103 

only large enough for one foot. Ah ! there is her voice — she 
has done it ! ” 

"Mr. Talbot,” called Mrs. St. Cyr. "Will you he good 
enough to hid the coachman lay down the carpet and open the 
door of the chariot ? ” 

And while Lady Betty ran up to the drawing-room to display 
herself before Mrs. St. Cyr and Gerard, Tom did his duty, and 
saw that the necessary arrangements were made ; afterwards 
he had the happiness of taking Lady Betty down, and placing 
her in the carriage, Mrs. St. Cyr following slowdy, supported 
by Gerard and the maid. 

It required the combined efforts of Tom and Gerard to hoist 
Mrs. St. Cyr into her seat, for her shoes seemed to have de- 
prived her limbs as well as her feet of power. 

Tom closed the door, gave a last glance at Lady Betty’s 
radiant face — and then signalled to the coachman, and saw the 
heavy chariot roll away. 

“ Shall I leave the door open for you, Sir ? ” asked the maid, 
when she had waited a reasonable time after the departure of 
the carriage, for Tom to make some movement. 

Aroused from the lethargy into which he had sunk when 
the chariot disappeared from his sight, Tom shook his head 
without turning, and slowly walked away. He had nowhere 
to go, nothing to do, the customary resources of entertainment 
were unpalatable to him, and so he wandered about purpose- 
lessly, until it suddenly struck him that it would be agreeable 
to walk in Stanhope Street, and look at the house where Lady 
Betty was enjoying herself. 

Thoroughfare was stopped in the approaches to Mrs. 
Walker’s house. Carriages blocked the streets, and the masks 
made their way on foot escorted by liveried servants with 
flambeaux. In front of the house a company of musicians in 
costume received the visitors, a detachment of the Royal 
Guards kept back the mob. Tom threw himself into the crowd, 
and partly by the exertions of those around him, partly by his 
own, got a piace in the front rank, nearly facing the house. 

There was very little to see. The masks entering the house 
were the attraction for most people; but Tom fixed his eyes on 
the windows of the ball-room, and saw nothing else in trying 
to define the outline of one beloved figure in the moving throng 
shadowed upon the rose silk blinds. He had no doubt that 
Lady Betty was the centre of admiration, and a feeling of 
pride stirred his heart, as he thought, erroneously enough per- 
haps, that all the commotion about him was but a tribute to 
her beauty. 


104 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


Suddenly the Body Guards began to back their horses, the 
hum of voices rose to a roar, and the royal carriage drove up 
to the door. The Prince of Wales, in a grey silk domino with 
a deep lace-edged cape, and Mrs. Fitz-Herbert, in a pale lilac 
silk domino, alighted, and entered the house. Tom then ceased 
to exult in the beauty of Lady Betty. 

The mob thinned quickly after the departure of the royal 
carriage. In half-an-hour visitors ceased to arrive, in an hour 
the idlers had gone to their homes. Probably no one would 
leave the ball for three hours at the least. Yet Tom still paced 
the pavement, his head down and his hands behind him. Time 
was nothing to him. 

The gaiety in the ball-room was in its zenith. Passing the 
house strains of music reached his ears. The sound displeased 
him ; he could not look up at the rose-pink blinds ; he feared 
shadows now, and his mind was again tormented with turbulent 
jealousy. He turned up Stanhope Street to escape the sounds 
of music. At the upper end all was still, the coachmen slept 
inside their carriages, and there was not a sound, except when 
a horse pawed the ground or champed its bit. Suddenly the 
silence was rudely broken by hurrying footsteps, and voices 
raised high. 

“ Mrs. St. Oyr’s chariot ! Mrs. St. Cyr’s chariot ! ” was the cry. 

Tom stopped in amazement, and turned to see who called. 

A man in a white satin costume, without his hat, ran past 
him, looking at the carriages and calling as he went “ Mrs. St. 
Cyr’s carriage 1 ” It was Gerard Crewe. 

Tom recognised him, and running after him, caught hold of 
his arm. 

“ What is the matter ? where is Lady Betty P ” he cried. 

“She is quite safe,” answered Gerard, without stopping, and 
still glancing from carriage to carriage, while three or four 
men still woke the echoes with their cry for Mrs. St. Cyr’s 
chariot. 

“Then why have you left her? answer me, Gerard. You 
promised to protect her. Have you left her with her mother ? n 

u Her mother,” answered Gerard, “ is dead 1 ” 


CHAPTER XXII. 

A SECOND OFFER. 

Mrs. St. Cyr had taken a seat in a corner of the ball-room, 
which commanded a good view, and had not moved from it. 


A SECOND OFFER. 


105 


She was pale, and complained of " the palpitations,” hut Lady 
Betty, who knew nothing of Doctor Blandly’s warning, had 
treated these signs and words lightly, and attributed them to 
nothing more serious than to the torture of wearing tight 
shoes. 

Mrs. St. Cyr’s excitement was followed by a strange drowsi- 
ness. A dowager who sat next to her observed that she dropped 
her fan without noticing it, and her head sank forward slightly 
as if she were dozing. At that moment she thought it right 
to awake her, as Lady Betty was approaching with the Prince. 

“ Rise, madam, rise,” she" said ; “ the Prince of "Wales and 
your daughter are before you.” 

Mrs. St. Cyr opened her eyes, to see, perhaps, the consumma- 
tion of her dream, rose with a faint cry, and then fell forward, 
dead, at the very feet of her daughter and the Prince. The 
subsequent inquiry proved that her heart was diseased, and its 
action had been so weak, that the excitement of the scene was 
amply sufficient to produce death. 

It was the most severe shock Lady Betty had ever had. 
For some days her faculties seemed numbed and paralysed by 
the terrible catastrophe; she received the condolence of visit- 
ing friends with slight emotion, almost with apathy, as if she 
could not yet realise that the event was actual and real ; then 
her spirit awoke from its lethargy, to suffer all that a womanly 
heart can endure in its first experience of loss. For a week 
she was disconsolate, refusing to see anyone except her maid 
and Tom. 

In the hour of grief Tom had a manly incapability of saying 
anything, which made him a more acceptable companion to the 
sufferer than any wordy comforter. Beyond bringing her 
presents of flowers and fruit he offered no consolation, he was 
too wretched himself, but she knew that he sympathised with 
her to his soul’s extent, his face was constantly long, his com- 
plexion bad, and more than once when she burst into tears he 
Kept her company ; for be it remembered men at that time 
were either softer of heart or less ashamed of tears than now. 

After Mrs. St. Cyr’s funeral Lady Betty’s grief diminished, 
she assuaged her tears, and began to look about her. One fine 
afternoon she consented to walk in the park with Tom. It 
surprised her to find all the trees in young leaf, and delighted 
her also. They walked in the alleys removed from the pro- 
menade, and to Lady Betty’s mind there was nothing more 
beautiful than the look of the tender green foliage, the bright 
soft light, and the occasional glimpse of gaiety in the distant 
promenade. The retirement harmonized with the lingering 


106 


LIEUTENANT BAKNABAS, 


sadness in her heart, while the occasional snatches of colour and 
life upon the promenade suggested hope and pleasure. 

" Let us sit here,” she said, when they came to a seat. 

They sat in a soft umbrage, and Lady Betty, looking around 
her, said : 

" Ah ! if poor dear mamma were beside us ! ” 

Tom responded only with a sigh, sighing not because of Mrs. 
St. Cyr’s absence — he had an idea that Mrs. St. Cyr would not 
have chosen that pleasant retreat to i;est in — but in sympathy 
with Lady Betty. Her face was pale and sad, she looked 
sweeter than ever in her mourning dress. 

Neither spoke for some time ; a sparrow struggling to carry 
away a long straw to its nesting-place presently attracted their 
attention. Lady Betty became interested in the efforts of the 
sturdy little creature, and her face grew animated. 

" Pretty dear! ” she murmured. 

"Would you not like to go in the country?” asked Tom; 
" to hunt in the woods for primroses and anemones ? ’Tis not 
too late.” 

" Oh, there’s nothing I like better than hunting in the woods 
for wild flowers ! Daffodils — don’t you like daffodils, with 
their great, bold yellow blooms and tender green leaves ? Oh, 
yes, I should like to go into the country ! ” She clasped her 
hands with delight, then with a return of gravity : " But how 
can I go now, Tom, alone ? ” 

" You are not alone,” said Tom, gently resting his arm on his 
knee, and looking into her face. 

She looked at him gravely, dropped her eyes, and twined 
her fingers in silence. 

"Be my wife, dear, and let us go away where nature is 
sweetest,” continued Tom. " By the time the wild roses are 
in bloom your cheeks will be pink again, and your heart 
light.” 

She lifted her eyes and looked straight before her, her mind 
gradually wandering from the subject of Tom’s remarks. The 
thick trunk of a tree stopped her view ; moving a little from 
Tom and inclining her head to the side, she just caught a 
glimpse of the promenade — of carriages moving rapidly, of 
ladies gaily dressed, and dawdling dandies. Then a lady on 
horseback passed, and she craned her neck a little farther to see 
if she sat well, if her figure was good, and her habit becoming 
Perhaps it was that glimpse that decided her fate. 

" Be it yes or nay, give me an answer,” pleaded Tom. 

"No, Tom — I cannot marry yet,” she answered, looking him 
full in his earnest face. " When I am sad I feel as if I would 


A SECOND OFFER. 


107 


like to "be a sober wife, and think of no one but you, and settle 
down to the steady routine of a domestic life. But I don’t 
want you to have a sad, dull wife, and I don’t want to marry 
for a mean motive — a selfish end. I must give my husband 
love for love, or we shall be mated but not matched. Give me 
time, Tom. I do believe I shall marry you one day, for I can 
imagine no one so loving and true as you.” 

“ Will you not give me your pledge that you will marry me 
and no one else.” 

“ No — that would never do,” she smiled. “ I can do nothing 
under restraint. It is the fault of my nature. If I had been 
in Eve’s place, I should have made myself ill with eating apples, 
without waiting for any serpent to advise me. Wait patiently 
a little while. Fruit is best gathered when ripe.” 

“ But you cannot live alone in that house.” 

Lady Betty thought of the lonely house, and shuddered 
slightly. 

“ Everyone admits that,” pursued Tom. “ It will expose 
you to observation if I visit you more frequently than custom 
allows to ordinary friendship.” 

“ That is not your idea, Tom. Who told you so ? ” 

“ Gerard.” Tom hesitated a moment or two, then continued. 
“ He has argued the matter clearly, and convinced me against 
my own opinion.” He paused; then with an evident struggle 
recommenced. “ I’ll tell you all. The fact is, while you have 
refused to see your friends they have been thinking a great 
deal about you, and failing to see you themselves, have sent a 
message through me.” 

“ How mysterious you are — why did you not deliver your 
message before ? ” 

“You will see presently. Mrs. Walker” — Tom groaned — 
“ Mrs. Walker desires you to live with her while she remains 
in London.” 

“ How kind,” said Lady Betty, her eyes sparkling. 

“ And Gerard has pointed out that it will be the best thing 
in the world for you, if — if you won’t marry me. You know 
now why I delayed giving her message.” 

u You are a selfish, cruel — dear. Be cheerful, Tom. Don’t 
you see that the prospect makes me happy. Why are you 
crushing that herb under your heel, and looking as though you 
wished that spot of ground comprised all London.” 

“ Because I hate London,” said he with emphasis, grinding 
a hole and burying the unoffending herb with his heel. 

11 That is to say you hate Mrs. Walker.” 

“ There is no love lost between us. We have spoken to each 


108 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


other only once, and parted with a mutual desire to see each 
other no more.” 

“ If she was rude to you, Tom, she was rude to me, and I 
will speak to her no more.” 

“No. I think it was the other way. I was rude to her. 
I believe ’tis nothing but mutual antipathy. Do not let my 
ill-temper prejudice you against her — it is my belief that her 
intentions towards you are of the kindest — and — and I believe 
you will be happy if you accept the invitation.” 

“ Tell me why the proposal is unpleasant then to you ? ” 

“ Consider what I lose ! I may see you by chance now and 
then in the Park— at the theatre— in a picture-gallery — you 
may pass me in her carriage, or on horse ; but virtually you are 
lost to me — for a season at least. Yet that may be no more 
than the beginning of a still wider and more complete 
separation.’ 

u Oh, Tom, how can you say so — sitting here by my side, 
knowing me as you do. Am I heartless and false utterly? 
Did I say that I loved you better than anyone in the world 
that my words should be forgotten or mistrusted ? if so I wish 
the admission unsaid.” 

“ Forgive me for saying anything which could make you 
imagine me so ungrateful. What I meant is this : I cannot 
visit you at Mrs. Walker’s.” 

“ And why not ? Listen, Tom — if I may not see my friends 
as freely as I wish — if you are not to be as welcome as myself, 
I will not accept this invitation.” 

Lady Betty meant what she said. Nevertheless at the end 
of six weeks she had been a resident in Mrs. Walker’s house for 
a month, and had seen Tom three times and no more. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

AN EVIL GENIUS. 

“ Dear Tom, 

“ Have you forgotten me so soon ? I have not seen you for 
three weeks ; it is not my fault. Come and beg my forgiveness. 
To-morrow afternoon I shall be quite alone, and, I think, 
gently disposed. 

“ Very affectionately yours, 

“ Lady Betty.” 

To this point Tom read with a flow of happiness to his heart, 


AN EVIL GENIUS. 


109 


which was sadly in need of such a tender influence. He put 
the letter to his lips, for her hand had touched and hallowed 
it. Then he read the foot note : 

“ Postscriptum — Don’t come to-day.” 

Tom folded the letter in sombre meditation. 

“Why are you not to go to-day ? ” asked liia evil genius. 

And the evil genius having obtained great power over Tom 
in the past unhappy fourteen or fifteen days, he lent ear, and 
against all the better promptings of his mind, he determined 
that he would call upon Lady Betty this very afternoon. If 
Lady Betty was out no harm could be done ; if, on the other 
hand, Lady Betty had visitors to whom she gave the preference, 
harm might be done, “and so much the better,” hinted the 
evil genius. 

He allowed no time for his blood to cool ; in hot haste he 
made his way to Stanhope Street. As he approached the house 
at the corner, the Prince of Wales’s carriage passed him, empty. 
He stopped and looked after it, trembling in every limb with 
the fever of jealousy. Poor fool! if the Prince had been 
seated peaceably in the carriage he would have felt no less 
emotion. 

The footman, in reply to his question, answered that Miss 
St. Cyr was in the house, and conducted him into the library, 
where he found himself alone. The reflection flashed upon him 
that perhaps after all he had deceived himself. It was not 
impossible that Mrs. Walker was unwell and wished to be 
alone. He sat down wondering how he should excuse himself 
when Lady Betty came to him if this were the case. He 
listened to an approaching footstep with agitation. 

The door opened, and there entered — Gerard Crewe. 

“ Ah, Tom,” he said, closing the door. 

The catch seemed difficult to fasten. He stood still with his 
hand on the lock. 

“ You have come at an unfortunate moment. Sit down, ' 
he said, crossing the room. 

“ One word. Is Lady Betty upstairs ? ” 

“Yes; she is in the reception-room,” answered Gerard, 
standing between Tom and the door. 

“Then I will go up to her.” 

Tom tried to pass, but Gerard, quickly shifting his position, 
faced him still, and said : 

“ Sit down, my dear Tom ; be reasonable. It is impossible 
for you to go upstairs at present.” 

“ And why ? ” asked Tom, in a harsh voice. 

u The Prince is there.” 


110 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


,f I knew it — I knew it,” muttered Tom, his face growing 
livid, and his teeth clenched tightly together. “ I knew it the 
moment you entered the room. We shall see if it is impossible 
to go into the reception-room.” 

He pushed brusquely past Gerard, and attempted to open the 
door. It was locked and the key taken. 

“ Who has locked this door ? ” he cried, fiercely. 

“ I have. The key is in my pocket. You shall have it the 
moment you are calm.” 

“ What authority have you to put conditions upon my 
liberty P ” 

“ The authority of a friend.” 

“ I refuse to consider you my friend. Give me the key.” 

"Not until you are reasonable, and know what you are 
doing.” 

“ You villain ! give me the key ? ” Tom cried in a fury, 
seizing Gerard by the arm. 

Gerard was far the slighter man. In a struggle he would 
have had no chance against Tom ; but he did not budge an 
inch. He looked in Tom’s face with unflinching calmness, and 
said : 

“ Take your hand from my arm, Tom. What do you expect 
to gain by this violence ? I will fling the key through the 
window rather than suffer you to disgrace yourself and insult 
Lady Betty. I am her friend no less than you j at this moment 
I am a better friend than you.” 

“ You, a ” 

Tom checked himself. Mad as he was with passion he was 
ashamed of the taunt at his tongue’s end. 

“ A gamester by my own confession,” said Gerard, com- 
pleting Tom’s sentence. “ Well ? ” 

Tom dropped his hand from Gerard’s arm abashed. Gerard 
took advantage of the momentary calm and continued : 

“ A gamester may yet have the feelings of a man — pity for 
another, blind and reckless with jealousy, and for a helpless, 
sensitive girl. Listen to me, Tom.” 

There was the sound of a door opening in the room above, 
and of voices, which, falling on Tom’s ear, re-aroused the devil 
in his breast. 

“ I will not listen to you,” he cried. “ It is by listening to 
your sophistry that I have been cheated into error — that I 
suffered Lady Betty to come into this — this den ” 

“ What on earth do you mean ? ” 

“ I say that this house is vile, and you know it. Who is this 
Mi's. Walker — this fashionable beauty? A second Mrs. Fitz- 


AN EVIL GENIUS. 


Ill 


Herbert. And between you you would make a third of Lady 
Betty. You play the part of jackal to a marvel, guarding- the 
royal beast with the hope of getting what is left when his 
appetite is glutted/ Send me your friends to-morrow, you 
shall not live if there is justice in heaven ! ” 

Tom threw himself in a chair, as if exhausted bv the 
paroxysm of his rage. The street door had closed. Gerard 
made no answer to Tom except by a formal bow. He walked 
across and across the room, with his eyes on the floor. 

There was a knock at the door, and Lady Betty, in a lively 
tone, cried, “ May I come in, gentlemen ? ” 

Gerard glanced at Tom, who sat sullenly in his chair and 
heard the voice without moving a muscle, and then took the 
key from his pocket and opened the door. 

Lady Betty entered with a bright smile on her face, caught 
sight of Tom, checked herself in the very act of making a 
courtesy, and becoming instantly serious, said to Gerard : 

“ Mrs. Walker is alone; will you be good.enough to join 
her P ” 

After a moment’s hesitation, Gerard bowed and left the 
room. Tom still sat. 

“ Do you know that I am in the room ? ” Lady Betty asked. 

Tom rose to his feet, and said coldly : 

“ You did not expect to see me, it seems.” 

“No; I wrote asking you not to come this afternoon. 
Evidently you did not receive my letter.” 

“ On the contrary ; it was that request which brought me 
here.” 

“ In that case you owe me an explanation.” 

“ It is very simple. I suspected your reason for wishing me 
away.” 

“ You are so amazingly candid that I should not be surprised 
by your adding that the main object of your visit is to insult 
me.” 

“ There are insults, less pardonable than the plain speaking 
of an honest man, which you appear to accept with willingness. 

“ If you think I feel any sort of pleasure in submitting to 
yours, you are in error.” 

“I am in no humour to bandy words, Lady Betty, the 
subject is too serious to treat with drawing-room levity. You 
know the insults to which I refer.” 

“In the matter of insults you must necessarily have the 
advantage of me. At present I have experience of only one 
kind of insolence, but doubtless, with Mr. Talbot to enlighten 
me, I shall soon know every possible variety.” 


112 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


“ I would that you knew no worse than I can offer — the rude- 
ness of a rough and angry man.” Tom spoke with a soft inflexion 
of the voice, and his eyes rested for a moment on Lady Betty 
with a tenderness which did more to shake her than his fiercest 
words. “The insult which should make your virgin blood 
rise in choler to your face, and stir your soul with indignation, 
is that which men, wanting in principle and honour, put upon 
you when they claim equality with you.” 

“ I do not understand you,” said Lady Betty, with grave 
perplexity in her voice and features. 

“ My meaning is this — the men who visit this house, to whom 
you give your hand in friendship, whose conversation you 
listen to, are roues — rakes — men loose in thought and principle, 
who wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of your innocence, 
seeking by insidious means to shake the foundation of your 
self-respect and delicacy.” 

“Tom, I should laugh if anyone but you talked such 
extravagant nonsense; but I feel more inclined to cry when 
you suffer your reason to be so warped by prejudice and 
jealousy. Is it possible that a society can be formed entirely of 
perfect men and women P Is each individual to be examined and 
to carry a diploma of merit for presentation on his introduction 
to a new acquaintance? And do not you think that if an 
examination of that kind could be made, the society founded 
upon it would be very hypocritical, very narrow, and exces- 
sively stupid ? ” 

“ While men conceal their vices they have yet a sufficient 
decency to claim our respect; but others, whose vices are 
flagrant, whose immorality is public ” 

“ Whom do you refer to P ” 

“ The man whose society you prefer to mine — the man you 
were closeted with, while your friend Gerard held me a 
prisoner here.” 

Lady Betty’s cheeks flushed red, and she cried — “ Have you 
no shame, Tom ? I was closeted with no one. The Prince 
was Mrs. Walker’s visitor, not mine. It is a struggle to think 
gently of you when you wrong me by suspicion, and hard to 
bear in mind that you have been good to me when you treat 
me so ill. It was love for you that made me ask you to see me 
when we should be alone and free from the interruption of 
visitors — it was consideration for you that made me add the 
postscript; but love and consideration are powerless against 
your morbid jealousy. I sacrifice my pride in adopting this 
explanatory tone, for with all my faults, I am not ungrateful 
nor forgetful.” 


AN EVIL GENIUS. 


113 


u If you knew the danger in which you stand, you would 
forgive me for my savage eagerness to save you*— even if I had 
no other claim upon your tenderness.” 

“I do know the danger in which I stand — the peril that 
menaces every attractive woman, and I tell you this — know- 
ledge is a better arm to virtue than ignorance.” 

Tom did not respond. The fact that he had been shamefully 
unjust to Lady Betty, and made a fool of himself, began to 
dawn upon his mind. 

“To think you should misdoubt me so! ” said Lady Betty, 
then her courage giving way, she sought her pocket-handker- 
chief, sobbing — “I — I believe you would shut me up in a 
convent if you could.” 

“ No, not that — I would shield you from harm, not with cold 
walls, but with these two loving arms, dear girl. Give me by 
a word the right to be your champion and defender.” 

“ No, Tom, no.” Lady Betty said with resolution, as she 
wiped her eyes and put her handkerchief away. “ No. I will 
not marry until I feel quite certain that my husband and I 
shall make each other happy. And just at this moment” — 
she added with a gleam of her habitual humour — “ the prospect 
is not very promising.” 

“ You are right,” said Tom. Then he held out his hand and 
she gave him hers, and they stood looking into each other’s 
eyes sadly for some seconds. 

Their thoughts were not in the same train, yet the thought 
of each was pregnant with regret. 

Lady Betty had expected their meeting and their parting to 
be so different. For instead of thinking harm of her lover, 
she had put a favourable construction upon his absence, and 
half determined that when they met she would let him see 
just how much she loved him ; and if, in consequence, he should 
repeat the offer of marriage, she thought she might say yes. 

She had surveyed mankind during her residence with Mrs* 
Walker, and found no specimen at all comparable with Tom. 
Now, this little scheme must be abandoned — and the chance of 
making him happy or of being happy herself for a long time to 
jome, seemed slight indeed. 

Tom did not know the cost of his jealousy, or how much he 
had lost by his inopportune visit ; what concerned him was poor 
Lady Betty’s grief, and he said to himself, that it was shameful 
to treat a sweet, unoffending girl with groundless imputations, 
and cruel doubts, and that he would take himself right away 
from her until he could think of her justly and well. He 
would not go out of the country — that would be too hard — but 

8 


114 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


to Talbot Hall — supposing he came off luckily from his forth- 
coming encounter with Gerard Ore we. 

Then they parted, and were utterly wretched — both. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

BEFORE THE FIGHT. 

Doctor Blandly sat on a firm, wooden stool, conveniently 
placed among the alders, beside the admirable preserves adjoin- 
ing the old Ferry House Inn, Tottenham. His right hand 
grasped a rod; he raised his left hand gently and pressed his 
spectacles a little closer to his nose ; his lips were tightly closed ; 
his eyes were fixed upon .the float ; he scarcely breathed. His 
left hand slowly descended to his knee, and he gradually rose 
from his seat ; then as the quill dipped once more he gave the line 
a snatch and felt his victim jerking and pulling at the hook. 

“ Ha ha, my boy. I have you this time,” said he, raising the 
fish carefully "to the grass. 

“ And you deserve him ; you haven’t relaxed a muscle these 
last ten minutes.” 

Doctor Blandly turned to see who spoke, and found Tom Talbot 
at his back. 

“ You, Tom ! ” he cried, wringing the young man’s hand, and 
holding it in the affectionate manner of a sincere old friend. 
“ I thought you were off on your travels again, my boy.” 

“ Here I am, Sir, with as little chance of leaving England as 
that poor devil of a fish.” 

He spoke with unusual gravity, and fixed his eyes on the fish 
that was gasping feebly in the grass. Doctor Blandly scanned 
his face attentively, and laying down his rod, said to himself — 
“ There’s more than common meaning in those words, or my 
name is not Blandly ; ” then as he raised himself he said in a 
low tone of anxiety : 

“ What's the matter, Tom ? ” 

“ A matter, Doctor, in which I require your assistance, you 
may be sure, by the fact that I come to break in upon your 
sport.” 

“ We will go into the house.” 

u There is no hurry for an hour or two. Throw out your 
line, and I will sit on the grass here by your side, and teil all 
that you have to know.” 

“ If you think fish are to be caught while one is talking to 


BEFORE THE FIGHT. 


115 


the angler, you do an Injustice to the fish ; and if you think I 
can enjoy sport and listen to your trouble at the same time, you 
do an injustice to me. Jerry ! ” 

In answer to this call there came a low muttering from the 
further side of a thorn bush. 

“ Jerry ! ” repeated Doctor Blandly, impatiently. “ D 

that fellow! when he gets a rod in his hand he loses all sense 
of duty. Jerry ! ” 

At the third call Jerry backed into sight, holding his rod at 
arm’s-length, and straining liis eyes towards his float. 

“ Another moment and I should have caught him ! ” he 
murmured, in a tone of deep regret, as, unable to protract his 
occupation to a greater length, he raised his hook. 

“ What, had you a nibble P ” asked the Doctor, with some- 
thing like sympathy in his voice. 

“ Not a quarter of an hour ago,” replied Jerry. " Morning, 
Master Tom,” he added, touching his hat. 

“ Where’s Baxter P ” asked Doctor Blandly. 

“ 1 don’t know, Sir. lie’s been running up and down the bank 
for the last half-hour like a dog that won’t take to the water.” 

“Jerry ! Jerry ! ” 

“ Ask your pardon, Doctor, but that there Mr. Baxter he is 
such a fisherman. First he gets his hook in the weeds, then he 
thinks he’s got a bite, and jerks his float, and his hook, and his 
bait, and every blessed thing into the top branches of an alder, 
then he breaks his line, gets another, slips in the water and 
frightens the fish, and afterwards complains that he never has 
a bite!” 

Doctor Blandly chuckled. 

“ Well, well,” said he ; “fish out one of the bottles from the 
water and take it to him, Jerry. I’ll wager he will sit still for 
half-an-hour with that beside him. What can you expect ? ” he 
asked, turning away and taking Tom’s arm, “ What can you 
expect of a man who allowed himself to be caught by Mrs. 
Baxter ? Look around you, Tom, my boy ; the tender green of 
these water meadows spangled here and there with patches of 
yellow celandine, over there all golden with buttercups, the 
hedges pink with dog-roses that give the air a wholesome sweet 
flavour, the chesnuts by the road, the pollard-willows bending 
over the shining water, the pearly clouds floating lazily before 
the wind, the red-brick inn where we shall find a snowy cloth 
spread with a great, round cheese, a brown crusty loaf, and a 

J 'ug of sparkling ale all waiting to refresh us when we enter, 
lere Nature smiles and says, 1 Behold the very best I have to 
give, enjoy it and be happy/ To the rational being, with a 

8-2 


116 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


sound jacket to his hack and eighteen pence in his pocket, there 
is, indeed, nothing left to desire. He takes and is thankful. 
But your wayward egotist, of which Baxter is the type, answers, 
‘His not enough/ and forthwith takes a wife, then, i’ faith, he 
finds to his sorrow that he has too much, and knows the in- 
effable blessing of contentment no more.” 

Tom made no answer. Earth and all that it held, and more 
than that, he valued less than Lady Betty. He looked round 
upon the meadows, and saw them only mechanically ; for the 
first time in his life the beauty of nature did not touch his heart. 
Nothing there could give him happiness, and he was famishing 
for want of it. 

“ She is not here/’ he said to himself, “ and I — I cannot ‘cloy 
the hungry edge of appetite by bare imagination of a feast.’ ” 

They entered the ‘‘Ferry-boat./’ where Doctor Blandly’s 
expectations were realised. In the sanded parlour a cloth was 
spread, and the untouched half of a ripe Cheshire cheese stood 
in the centre, flanked by a couple of loaves. 

“I’ve kept it for you, Doctor,” said the host, pointing to the 
cheese with pride. “ Kept it untouched for a fortnight. Smell 
of it, Sir ; look at it, see the veins of it, Sir ! ” 

“ Blue as a bilberry ! ” responded the Doctor, with satis- 
faction. “And now for the ale, Mr. Grigs.” When the ale 
was put upon the table and Mr. Grigs had withdrawn, Doctor 
Blandly said, “ Now, Tom, for your news.” 

“ We will have our bread and cheese, first, Doctor.” 

“Right, my boy, help yourself. What ale! Yes, you can 
save the serious business until we have satisfied our appetites. 
Did you ever see a handsomer loaf than that now, Tom ? Still, 
we can talk of trifles.” 

“ Yes, yes, trifles,” answered Tom, absently, munching his 
crust and looking blankly through the opposite window. 

Doctor Blandly shot a keen glance at the young man, which 
assured him that he was in no humour for talking on trifles. 

“ I wrote to you best part of a month ago, young man, and 
getting no answer I naturally supposed that you had run 
away again.” 

“ You wrote to me, Doctor? ” 

“Yes, saying I wished to see you on a rather important 
matter of business.” 

“ True, I remember the letter; I should apologise, but that 
my mind has been burdened, burdened ! ” 

“ With business of a very important kind. Ha ! ha ! A 
little more ale, Tom. The fact is, I made a very lucky specu- 
lation on your account.” 


BEFORE THE FIGHT. 


117 


“ Have you indeed.” 

Tom cut a crust, and that and the fortunate speculation seemed 
to be of equal interest. 

“ You can add close upon twenty thousand pounds to your 
capital if you choose to take legal advantage of your position.” 

“ Oh, that’s understood ; set the lawyers to work and pile up 
my treasures.” 

“ I should point this out as another instance of the natural 
consequence of folly and restless greed, but that the sinner is 
dead, and the punishment falls upon the guiltless.” 

“ Indeed ! Pass the mustard, Doctor/’ 

" You remember the poor woman, doubtless — Mrs. St. Cyr.” 

“ Mrs. St. Cyr; ah!” Tom laid down his knife, and his 
whole attention became riveted upon Doctor Blandly. “ What 
of her ? ” 

“ She had twenty thousand pounds with which she wished 
to speculate. Her idea was this, she might purchase an 
annuity terminable with her life, which would enable her to 
live in a style consistent with her extravagant tastes, but not 
with her means.” 

11 An annuity terminable with her life ; but what provision 
did that make for her daughter ? ” 

" None — absolutely none. It left her penniless.” 

“ Incredible ! ” 

“ Not if you know the woman. I told her she could not live ; 
she, confident in herself alone, believed otherwise. She fancied 
that by a lavish expenditure she should deceive the world with 
respect to her daughter’s heritage; she believed that her 
daughter would entrap a rich man in marriage ; and she be- 
lieved that she would live to see her daughter thus provided 
for ; she was wrong.” 

" Wrong — wickedly wrong. Did you not dissuade her P ” 

u I tried to dissuade her, and failed.” 

“ Then Lady Betty — Miss St. Cyr has nothing.” 

“ Not a rap. She has no right to another farthing of her 
mother’s money.” 

“ Who has the money ? ” 

“ You, Tom. It is the addition to your fortune I alluded 
to.” 

“ I — I — really did not take notice of what you were saying. 
Tell me again.” 

"It is all told. When I found the woman inflexible, 
determined upon this heartless investment, I made a contract 
with her on your account — fancying that you would be more 
merciful towards the sufferer than the Jew dealers in annuities. 


118 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


You said just now that I was to set the lawyers at work and 
pile up your treasures ; if I obey your instructions, Miss St. 
Cyr should be apprised at once in order that she may give up 
her present style of living, and save as much from the wreck- 
age as possible.” 

“ You would not act upon that advice if I gave it seriously, 
Doctor. I did not know what I was saying.” 

“ Well, my boy, we must think about what is to be done. 
Quarter day will soon be here, and the young woman will want 
money — she has already applied to the lawyer in Lincoln’s Inn 
to know the state of her mother’s affairs.” 

Tom pushed back his chair from the table, rested his elbow 
on his knee and his face upon his palm, and gave himself up to 
reflection. 

The devil still lurked in Tom’s heart — it was a tenacious 
devil — one not to be expurgated by a simple, “ Get thee behind 
me.” It was prompting him now to base, ungenerous action. 
“ Why should you give this girl the power to live a life that 
you detest ? ” it asked. “ Humanity demands that you should 
give her enough to shield her from want ; but Reason forbids 
that you should give her more than would suffice to meet her 
requirements. Is it not for her good that she should be with- 
drawn from temptation, taken away from the influence of an 
idle and vicious society P W r ill it not reveal to her the shallow 
friendship, the false affection of those about her, to reduce her 
to a humbler level P And as one by one these lordlings, and 
fops, and fortune-hunters drop away, will not she realise the 
worth of truer friends ? ” 

As Tom listened to the suggestions of his own selfish 
jealousy, his face flushed — he could feel the blood throbbing 
under his fingers, in the veins upon his temple, and he viewed 
with savage satisfaction the ignoble exercise of his power over 
Lady Betty, and then quickly came revulsion. He sickened at 
the thought of his own selfishness, his heart ached as he figured 
the poor girl’s mortification in finding her mother exposed as 
a scheming, fraudulent woman, and her distress in finding that 
he whom she had trusted was heartless and mean. 

“ What are you thinking about, Tom P ” asked Doctor 
Blandly, after casting one or two uneasy glances at the young 
man. 

“ Ah, indeed ! What am I thinking about ! ” exclaimed 
Tom, raising himself with a gesture of disgust. “ Myself— self 
— self — always myself.” Tie thrust his hand in his pocket, and 
drawing out a paper, said: “ Look at that, Doctor, and tell m» 
if it will answer my purpose.” 


BEFORE TIIE FIGHT. 


119 


Dr. Blandly put aside his plate— the famous cheese had lost 
its flavour as he marked Tom’s agitation — drew out his 
spectacle-case, took a pinch of snuff, settled his glasses care- 
fully, and then opened the paper. 

This is what he read : 

“ I, Thomas Talbot, of Talbot Hall, Sevenoaks, in Kent, do 
give the whole of my property, my lands, buildings, goods, and 
money to Benjamin Blandly, M.t)., of Edmonton, in Middle- 
sex, to be divided equally, and as he thinks justly, at my 
death, between ( ) and Elizabeth St. Cyr, of Park 

Lane, London. And this is my will and testament, written in 
the month of July and the year of grace, one thousand and 
eight hundred.” 

There was a furrow in Doctor Blandly’s forehead when he 
commenced to read ; it grew deeper as he continued. 

When he came to the conclusion, he slowly turned the 
paper over as if he exnected to find something further on the 
back, then he laid it down on the table, and looking straight 
through his glasses at Tom, said in a tone of perplexity : 

“ What the devil does all this mean, my boy ? ” 

“ I am going out with a man to-morrow morning, Doctor — 
that’s all.” 

“ That’s all! and quite enough too, I think. So you are 
going out to cut a man’s throat, hey ? ” 

“ The probability is that he will cut mine, for I know about 
as little of the use of a small sword as a woman.” 

“ Then more fool you to fight. What is your quarrel ? ” 

“ I have insulted a gentleman — I left him no option but to 
challenge me.” 

“ What do you mean by an insult ? It isn’t in you to offer 
anyone a gratuitous affront.” 

“ I assure you the fault is entirely mine.” 

“ Then the noblest thing you can do is to apologise.” 

“ I consider that a mean way of evading punishment, and 
refused to retract my words. The seconds arranged every- 
thing before I left town, and we meet to-morrow morning. I 
should fight it for no other reason than that I bear my father’s 
name.” 

“What better reason have you?” asked Doctor Blandly 
sharply. 

“None. My adversary is a gentleman and a cool hand. 
He will let me off with a flesh wound, I expect — if not, what 
matter ? I am a useless, purposeless man.” 

“How dare you say that, Tom. It is blasphemy to say 
that a single thing that God has put upon this earth is useless.” 


120 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


Tom was silent. 

Doctor Blandly with a frown took up the paper and read it 
again. 

“ What is this blank space intended for P ” he asked. 

“ A name that I shall fill in.” 

“ Hum ! ” grunted the Doctor, “ the aforesaid Benjamin 
Blandly, M.D., I suppose.” 

He folded the paper and laid it down ; then he looked 
straight before him for a couple of minutes. He rose from 
his seat and walked in silence to the window, which looked 
out upon his beloved water-meadows and the peaceful stream, 
and then he softly whistled the first bar of his favourite ditty, 
“Up came a Pedlar,” &c., broke off suddenly, slowly drew out 
his Indian silk handkerchief — a gift of Tom’s — and took off 
his glasses to wipe from them a humidity that had clouded 
the tender landscape before him. 

“ There is not much to dread, Doctor ; the man feels kindly 
towards me, I know.” 

“ Oh, confound his kindness ! ’tis of a piece with your 
gentlemanly mode of expressing regret for an affront.” The 
Doctor took a pinch of snuff, which seemed to restore his 
vigour. “Well, Tom, I see no way out of it,” he said, 
turning to the table again, and taking up the paper ; “ go and 
fight, if honour demands it of you, and may God answer your 
old friend’s prayer and save you for a better fate than death 
by an English hand. As for this paper, ’tis enough. An 
alteration of one or two words, and the signature of a couple 
of witnesses, will make it as effective as needs be. Will you 
finish the day with me, Tom P ” 

“ I have arrangements yet to make.” 

“ Ah, well, well ! Baxter and Jerry shall put their names 
here, and we will say good-bye. Good-bye ! What a word, 
my boy ! Good-bye ! Think on it 1 And you a young, hearty 
fellow, while I— — ” 

“ Come, Doctor, I have need of all my strength ; don’t shake 
my heart.” 

“Not I, my boy, not I. Go and pink your man and come 
rattling along to me, with a look of triumph in your eye that 
used to kindle in your father’s when he told of his tough 
fights. But I would to God your foe was not an Englishman. 
Who is he, my boy P ” 

“ You are not likely to know him, Sir. A young gentleman 
of the town — Mr. Gerard Crewe.” 

“ Gerard Crewe ! ” exclaimed the Doctor, dropping from his 
hand the inkpot he was carrying to the table. 


DOCTOR BLANDLY’S OPPOSITION. 


121 


u Yes, Sir. Do you know him ? ” 

The Doctor sat down, evidently much agitated. 

“ Yes/’ he said, under his breath. Then, suddenly striking 
the table with his fist, he cried, “ Tom, you mustn’t fight that 
man.” 

“ Tight ! ” echoed Tom, with a short laugh, “ I don’t know 
how ; but I shall stand up before him to a certainty. What 
do you know of him ? ” 

The Doctor took no notice of the question, but sat in deep 
thought until Tom repeated it. 

“ I know him for a dangerous man, a man you are not 
called upon to meet. His brother is a highwayman.” 

“Are you sure of that?” asked Tom, jumping up in ex- 
citement. 

“ Certain.” 

“ You believe him to be a man without principle — a 
hypocrite ? ” Tom asked, with increased force. 

Doctor Blandly, concluding from Tom’s altered manner that 
he was glad to see a means of escaping from a meeting which 
his own weakness had necessitated, replied : 

“ I cannot tell you all that I know of him, but I have little 
reason to doubt that he is capable of precipitating a quarrel 
with a sinister motive.” 

“ Then I will meet him with a light heart,” cried Tom, 
springing from his seat. “ If he is a villain all that I sus- 
pected is true, and nothing will please me better than to have 
at him.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

DOCTOR BLANDLY^ OPPOSITION. 

Gerard Crewe was seated in the long room at Brooks’, 
when the man with whom he was in conversation said : 

“ Who is the new arrival attracting so much attention. A 
country gentleman who has lost his way apparently.” 

Gerard turned his head, and looking over his shoulder 
perceived that the portly gentleman standing in the centre of 
the room, his legs apart, his stick planted firmly on the ground, 
his chin up, his pouting lips drawn down at the corners, and 
his eyes scanning successively the players at each separate 
table, was Doctor Blandly. 

“ A very worthy friend of mine, and possibly seeking me,” 

eaid Gerard. “ You will permit me r ” he rose, exchanged 

bows with his friend, and walked up to the visitor. 


122 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


u Are you looking for me, Doctor Blandly P ” lie asked. 

The Doctor turned without altering the set expression of his 
face, and looking him full in the face, answered : 

“ Yes, Mr. Gerard Crewe, I am. I wish to speak to you.” 

“ Will you speak to me here, or will you accompany me to a 
room where we shall be to ourselves.” 

“ A private room, if you please.” 

Gerard conducted the Doctor into a cabinet adjoining the 
long room. It was unoccupied. Gerard closed the door and 
placed a chair for his visitor. 

“ You have challenged Mr. Talbot,” said Doctor Blandly, 
opening the subject without preamble. 

“ 1 have,” Gerard replied, with quiet gravity. 

"Well, Sir, the meeting must not take place.” 

“ Must not take place P ” 

“ You must not draw your sword upon Mr. Talbot.” 

Gerard made a sort of interrogative movement with his 
delicate hands, and waited for an explanation. 

“ In the first place I appeal to you as a gentleman and a man 
of honour. Mr. Talbot has no skill with the weapon he is to 
use ; in all likelihood he never drew a rapier in his life. Do 
you think it fair then to take advantage of the superiority 
which you doubtless as a man of the world have over him ? ” 

u The choice of weapons was with him. I am willing to use 
pistols if he prefers them.” 

" Pistols ! a confounded murderous contrivance.” 

“ May I ask if you have come on behalf of Mr. Talbot ? ” 

“ Yes ; but without his knowledge. He seems more anxious 
to fight than you are — hang him ! He’s a hot-headed young 
gentleman, and from what I can learn it is as like as not that 
bis quarrel arose from a mistake. Now can a misunderstanding, 
which a few words would set right, justify you in jobbing at 
each other like a pair of heathen savages ? ” 

“ I have no choice. You must address your arguments to 
Mr. Talbot. I have offered him the option of apologising.” 

“ He cannot apologise ; he comes of a breed that never did 
apologise.” 

“ Then the meeting is inevitable.” 

"I have appealed to your sense of honour and humanity, I 
will appeal now to your feeling of gratitude. To Tom Taibot 
and his father you owe all that you have to be thankful for — 
rescue from the lowest depth of poverty and vice ; education, 
and a sufficient yearly allowance to ensure you from returning 
to your original condition.” 

Gerard inclined his head. 


DR. BLANDLY’S OPPOSITION. 


123 


u You knew this then ? ” said Doctor Blandly, sharply. 

11 1 suspected it.” 

Doctor Blandly did not know what to make of Gerard’s im- 
perturbable calmness. Predisposed to think ill of the gamester, 
lie set it down to cool indifference, and after taking a pinch of 
snuff and scowling side-long at Gerard, he recommenced with 
increased acerbity in his tone. 

“ Now, Mr. Crewe, I will attack you on new ground, and 
forsaking the supposition that you are a gentleman, a man of 
honour, or a person with ordinary feelings of gratitude, I will 
take it for granted that you have a tolerably deep regard for 
your own pecuniary interests. Let me tell you that this an- 
nual payment to you and your brother is made entirely in- 
dependent of any claim that you can produce, and totally at my 
discretion ; and I warn you that if you but scratch the skin of 
Tom Talbot, neither you nor Barnabas shall ever receive another 
penny of his money. Now, then, what have you to say to 
that ? ” 

“ What you have said does not alter my original intention.” 

“ Then you knew the facts that I have stated ? ” said the 
Doctor, sharply. 

M I suspected the truth.” 

“ Who hinted it to you ? ” 

“ My brother Barnabas.” 

Doctor Blandly looked at Gerard’s cold unemotional face in 
perplexity for a moment, then clapping his hands loud on the 
elbows of the chair, he cried in a tone of horror : 

*’ Good God ! can it be that you know all 1 that you are in 
conspiracy with that vile wretch Barnabas to rob Tom not 

only of his ; ” he checked himself abruptly, and then 

speaking to himself rather than addressing Gerard, “No, I 
cannot believe that, it is impossible ! ” 

“Finish your charge, Doctor Blandly.” 

“ Tell me what you know of Tom Talbot — of his father ! ” 

“I can only repeat what you have said ; I know no more.” 

Doctor Blandly drew a long sigh of relief, and seemed at a 
loss to know how to proceed. After waiting a minute in silence 
for him to speak, Gerard put his hand in his breast-pocket, 
and drawing out a case, said : 

“I am not wealthy, Doctor Blandly, but, for a gamester, I 
am thrifty. I have contrived + o amass this little bundle of 
notes, which for the last five or six months I have guarded 
carefully, hoping to have, sooner or later, a confirmation of my 
belief. You will find that they discharge, as far as money 
goes, my obligations to the Talbot family. I do not ask fof 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


jA 

an explanation of this mysterious generosity, I only ask f ar an 
extension of it by being allowed to purchase my independ- 
ence.” 

“ Good God ! ” exclaimed Doctor Blandly, sinking back in 
his chair, and adjusting his spectacles that he might look with 
perfect clearness at Gerard, then he repeated, “ Good God ! ” 

“ And now,” said Gerard, 11 you may perhaps see no reason 
why I should not meet Mr. Talbot to-morrow morning?” 

“ No reason ! that’s good ! The reason is stronger than ever, 
for if I was in doubt about you before, I am certain now. 

Gerard ” He rose to his feet, and grasped the young man’s 

cold thin fingers in his warm plump hand. “ As there is a 
heaven above us you shall not stain your sword with Tom’s 
blood.” 

“ For a final reason, Sir, why not ? ” 

“ Why not ? because he is your brother 1 ” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE FIGHT. 

The interview continued for half-an-hour longer, then Doctor 
Blandly and Gerard Crewe left the house together, walked into 
the Strand, and separated amicably at the hotel where the 
Doctor had arranged to stay for the night. 

Gerard returned to Brooks’, where he stayed all night, risk- 
ing a few pounds at a faro-table, but playing neither continu- 
ously nor with interest, and rather, as it seemed, to beguile the 
time than to win money. At five o’clock he was joined by 
two gentlemen, and they conversed in the cabinet where Doctor 
Blandly had sat with Gerard, until about half-past five, when 
a fourth gentleman entered the room. 

“ The carriage is at the door, are we all ready ? ” he asked, 
after exchanging hurried salutations with the company. 

‘‘Quite, as far as I am concerned,” answered Gerard. 

The other gentlemen expressed their readiness, and all four 
at once descended to the street, where a carriage with a pair 
of horses was waiting. A couple of rapiers and a mahogany 
case were on the seat ; the seconds tooK the swords between 
their knees, the surgeon nursed his property, and Gerard having 
seated himself, the carriage started off. 

At ten minutes before six they were on foot again, and 
making their way down an avenue of the park, Gerard and a 
second in advance, the other second with the surgeon following. 


THE FIGHT. 


125 


It was a grey morning 1 , a drizzling rain had been falling, 
and drops still fell from the trees. Gerard looked up at the 
heavens with anxiety ; an inky cloud was sweeping up under 
the grey veil that covered the sky. 

“ A mighty bad morning for our business,” said the second. 
“ If it rains will you toss for sides, and take the chance of get- 
ting the drift in your eyes, or play under the oak ? ” 

“ Under the oak,” answered Gerard. 

His second looked at him with surprise. 

Gerard stepped aside from the path and tried the grass. 

“ ’Tis dangerously slippery,” he said. 

“ That gives you the advantage, with your cool hand ; our 
adversary will slip about like an eel in his impetuosity. All 
you have to do is to stand still and pink him.” 

“ You understand distinctly that I offer Mr. Talbot the 
option of apology.” 

“ Certainly — you don’t feel nervous, do you, Crewe ? ” 

“ I never felt less firm in my life.” 

“ Ah ! you ought to have turned into bed for a few hours 
like a rational being, instead of sitting up all night in that hot 
room. However, you have nothing to fear. Ah ! here we 
are.” 

Turning the angle and coming in sight of the King’s Oak, 
they perceived, standing under its wide-spread boughs, Tom 
Talbot, with his two friends. A slight shiver ran through 
Gerard’s frame, which was -observed by his seconds. The 
black cloud came nearer. Having approached within a dozen 
yards of the oak, the party stopped. Gerard remained with 
the surgeon while the principals on both sides stepped forward 
to meet each other. 

“ Do you stick to your odds, Athol ? ” asked the second who 
had been walking with Gerard. 

“ Yes, twenty to one on our man — in fifties.” 

u Done,” and then the two gentlemen saluted the others, and 
proceeded with the usual preliminaries. Gerard had turned 
his eyes away, and not looked at Tom after the moment that 
he first caught sight of him. The cloud had come over the 
oak and the rain was now falling in heavy drops. The seconds 
returned, saying that Mr. Talbot refused to make any kind of 
apology. 

“ And the rain — what is settled about that ?” asked Gerard. 

“It is a matter of indifference to Mr. Talbot. Fie gives you 
the choice.” 

“ Then we will fight under the oak.” 

The seconds interchanged a quick glance, Mr. Athol loo 


126 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


the less cheerful of the two. Under the oak the rain was not 
felt, except in the occasional plash of accumulated drops, but 
the grass was not less slippery. Having taken off his coat, 
waistcoat and cravat, Gerard kicked off his shoes. Again the 
seconds glanced significantly at each other-: then everything 
being ready the principals advanced, Tom with his eyes fixed 
on his opponent — Gerard with his eyes upon the ground, until 
the moment that they were within a couple of paces of each 
other. For a moment they stood looking at each other full in 
the eyes. Tom, with an expression of dogged resolution on 
his square, English face. Gerard, with firmly set lips, and 
brow contracted rather in apprehension than anger. They 
saluted, measured swords, recovered, and crossed. 

Thus far Tom had acted upon the instruction he had received 
in the lesson taken over night, but now ignorant, of the finesse 
and delicate play upon which the duellist’s safety depends, he 
trusted for success to a quick and strong attack. The slight 
figure of his adversary, the consciousness of his own physical 
strength, gave him confidence, he saw nothing to prevent him 
plunging his sword through Gerard’s body at once ; bracing 
the muscles of his right hand and arm, he made a heavy 
lunge. To his utter astonishment the point of his sword was 
turned aside by a mere turn of Gerard’s wrist, and lie knew, as 
he clumsily recovered, that lie was at his antagonist’s mercy, 
and that it was in gallant consideration for his helplessness, 
that Gerard spared him. 

“What on earth is Crewe about ?” whispered Mr. Athol to 
his companion. “ He might have pinked his mail and finished 
the business, had he used the opportunity.” 

Once more Tom lunged, shortening his sword and throwing 
the weight of his body upon it ; with a (quick movement 
Gerard drew away, turning the point wide of its mark. 

“Now,” murmured Mr. Athol, stamping his foot, in expecta- 
tion of the final coup, as the top of Tom’s shoulder lined with 
Gerard’s breast. “Great heavens ! he has not touched him, 
when he might have spitted him down the middle like a 
capon/’ 

Nettled with his own want of skill, Tom, as soon as he 
recovered, recommenced the attack, and plunged wildly again 
and aga;n at his adversary, until at length, perceiving, what to 
the seconds was obvious from the first, that he had no chance of 
success, and that the only use Gerard made of his superiority 
was to foil his attempts, he threw down his rapier, and stood 
with his hands down for his adversary to do what he would. 
Exasperated with defeat, he would wiilingly at that moment 


AFTER THE FIGHT. 


127 


have received Gerard’s point upon his breast*, he was quite 
unprepared for any other result, and when Gerard threw down 
his sword also, and stepping* forward, extended his open right 
hand, he hesitated a moment, at a loss to know how to act. 

Doctor Blandly had said the man was a rascal and a 
hypocrite, but judging him by his own experience, could he 
prove a single departure from the behaviour of a friend and a 
gentleman. All his suspicions were based upon the supposit ion 
that Gerard was false, but with this convincing proof of loyalty 
those suspicions were unjust and indefensible. If Tom was 
ashamed of being beaten and reluctant to yield to a foe, he was 
by the same principle unwilling to be outdone in generosity, or 
to hold out against the advances of a friend, and so after that 
brief moment of doubt and hesitation, he gave his hand frankly 
to Gerard, saying : “ I have behaved unhandsomely, and I ask 
your forgiveness.” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

AFTER THE FIGHT. 

Tom walked off the field with a hang-dog look, and made no 
response to the cheerful congratulations of his seconds. It was 
not in his nature to underrate his own shortcomings, or to look 
on the cheerful side of the defeat. 

“I have made a fool of myself — insulted my friend, and 
been beaten,” he said to himself. 

His adversary’s generosity aggravated his mortification. 
He declined to take a place with his seconds in the carriage 
that was waiting for them ; he thanked them very civilly for 
their services, and went his own way, without even asking 
them to breakfast with him. He sat in his chamber with his 
hands buried in his pockets, thinking of his faults until he felt 
absolutely sick, and the girl brought a tray laid with a sub- 
stantial breakfast. He ate heartily, and liuding his sickness 
considerably lessened, he rose from the table with vigour, sat 
down at a desk and wrote this letter. 

“ Dear Doctor, — 

11 1 have been thoroughly beaten, but my adversary generously 
contented himself with a bloodless victory, though he might 
have done my business a dozen times. I honestly believe you 
are mistaken in him. As far as concerns my quarrel with Mr. 
Gerard Crewe, I am convinced that all the blame was on my 


128 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


side, and as I reflect that a couple of hours ago I was doing 
ray best to stick a small sword through his heart, I feel heartily 
ashamed that I took no better pains to prove the truth of my 
suspicions beforehand. 

“ I shall leave London by the first coach that starts for 
Sevenoaks, and there I shall stay till the madness which hath 
afflicted me to the discomfort of those I most love, shall have 
passed off. With regard to Miss St. Cyr, since fate has 
decided that she is not to have the half of my fortune, I beg 
that you will continue to place at her disposal the same annual 
amount paid to the late Mrs. St. Cyr, and I trust to your 
kindness to make the payment in such a manner that she may 
not know her mother’s fault, nor the source from which the 
money comes. In conclusion, my dear friend, I ask you to 
believe me ever — 

“ Your grateful and devoted, 

“Tom Talbot.” 

Having despatched this letter, Tom had nothing else to do 
than to lock up his chamber and walk to the “Blue Boar ” in 
Holborn. Nevertheless he stood irresolute upon his path for 
some time with his face due north. On the right hand lay 
Holborn, on the left Stanhope Street. 

u I am going away for weeks — perhaps for months,” thought 
he. “ May I not hang about for a couple of hours or so to 
catch a last glimpse of her. She need not see me, I will do 
nothing to renew her pain. One glimpse of her — God knows, 
’tis little enough to face the dreary solitude of months withal ! 
The clouds have broken, and she may go for a drive in an hour.” 
He cast his eye westwards. “ But suppose that by accident 
she sees me — we must speak, and then farewell to my fine 
resolutions. What a feeble fool I am. Hang me, if I give in! ” 
And with that he deliberately turned his face to the east, aud 
marched with steadfast firmness — for nearly two hundred yards, 
when he stopped dead short, struck with the recollection that 
the coach did not leave the “ Blue Boar ” until one o’clock. 

Looking at his watch, he found that it wanted yet a quarter 
of eleven. He could "walk to the “ Blue Boar ” in half-an-hour 
— a hackney-coach wmuld carry him there in twenty minutes ; 
why should he spend a miserable hour in Holborn when the air 
of the West End was so much more pleasant? There was but 
one logical answer to be made to this question, so he turned 
about, and with a lighter and quicker step, made his way to 
the Park, taking a seat by the drive, whence he could see those 
who came and went for a long distance. If Lady Betty came 


AFTER THE FIGIIT. 


129 


out this morning she would pass this seat, but he could see her 
afar and retire in time to escape her notice. 

* # # * 

Mrs. Walker was the centre of fashionable gossip. It flowed 
to her in little streams as to a reservoir, and the great world 
came to drink. She had a host of humble admirers, whose 
visits she encouraged if they only brought interesting items of 
news. An hour after Tom had engaged two friends to support 
him in his duel, the intelligence was carried to Mrs. Walker, 
and though in consideration for Lady Betty she retailed the 
important information in secret to her visitors, it reached the 
girl’s quick ear before nightfall, and for a time so overwhelmed 
her with horror and dread that she forgot the commonest con- 
venances of society, and would have run there and then to 
Tom’s chambers and begged him for the love of her to with- 
draw from the engagement, had not Mrs. Walker, to avoid 
such an indecency, assured her that Mr. Talbot had changed his 
abode. Then she wished to write to Mr. Crewe imploring 
him to hold his hand, but fortunately Mrs. Walker contrived 
to delay the sending of the letter until she had made her 
young friend see that honour and polite usage both forbade 
any interference with gentlemen engaged in the genteel busi- 
ness of seeking each other’s lives. 

Yet though she was induced to submit to the guidance of 
her friend, no arguments could make her look at the affair as a 
delicate compliment to herself which she would one day look 
back upon with pride ; and nothing could keep her from 
bursting into tears at the mention of the men’s names. She 
liked Gerard, she loved Tom — she lingered to listen to the 
conversation touching the duel with the fascination that attracts 
women to look upon a terrible possibility ; but when the subject 
was exhausted, she escaped to her room and gave herself up to 
grief. 

It was so awful to think that for a simple misunderstanding 
the man who had befriended her, who, she knew, in his heart 
loved her sincerely, should die, and be for ever lost to her. 
Lady Betty was careless, frivolous, and thoughtless, but she 
was not heartless. She loved Tom more thoroughly than he 
in his jealousy could love her. She would have risked her life 
to spare him pain, but he in his selfishness risked his life only 
thinking that it would be good to be rid of a tiresome existence, 
and without consideration of the grie: his loss would produce 
upon Lady Betty. 

Lying sleepless in the dark the imagination is active, the 
reason torpid. As she lay upon her comfortless bed a hundred 

9 


130 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


wild schemes for preventing the combat passed in review before 
Lady Betty’s mind, and when the first glimpse of dawn entered 
the window, she jumped up, determined to escape from the 
house before the servants were about, and go to the park, where 
she had heard the meeting was to take place, and to throw her- 
self between the swords of her lover and her friend. 

Before she was safely out of the house she perceived that her 
project, so feasible in its first conception, was no more than a 
forlorn hope. The precise time of meeting was doubtful — the 
exact spot unknown except to principals and seconds, who were 
bound to keep it secret. She knew that she should offend Mrs. 
Walker ; she feared that if she were fortunate enough to find 
the party and prevent the fight, her interposition would only 
result in a postponement of the duel ; but all these arguments 
combined failed to divert her from attempting that which was 
possible to her ; and her courage was proof against the sugges- 
tions of danger whichshe felt in going out alone and unprotected 
at that early hour. Muffled in a dark cloak and hood she 
hurried into the park, and quitting the main passage speedily 
lost herself. It astonished her to find how wide and wild the 
park was — for she had never before left the drive and its 
adjoining avenues. 

Mist shrouded the distance, and she hurried along ignorant 
of the course she took. Hazard led her past the King’s Oak an 
hour before the party she sought arrived, and at the moment 
that the duel was taking place, she was far from the spot, 
standing in the long wet grass and falling rain, looking around 
her in blank despair, dismayed with her solitude, and shivering 
with excitement and cold. 

Another hour of fruitless wandering and she found herself 
again in the same spot. Her tears, which had been withheld 
by hope, now coursed down her cheeks. She felt like a lost 
child. When she came into the avenue, which she recognised 
as that in which she had sat with Tom on the first day of her 
going out after her mother’s death, hope was gone, and she sat 
down to recover her strength, feeling utterly worn out and 
wretched. The clouds were breaking and showed that the 
morning was far advanced. 

“ All is over now,” she thought, and then knowing that the 
result of the duel would be known early at Stanhope Street, 
she rose quickly, left the park — a renewed anxiety giving her 
strength. She re-entered the house at the moment that the 
servants were making inquiries about the unfastened chains 
and bolts upon the door. They stared in blank astonishment 
to see her, deadly white and in a cloak sodden with rain. In 


AFTER THE FIGHT. 


131 


reply to her rapid questioning, they said that as yet no 
visitors or messengers had arrived, and asked her if she knew 
it was only just turned of eight. 

She tried to walk up-stairs, and stopped after the first few 
steps, clinging to the banister. A maid ran up, helped her to 
reach her room, and then leaving her ran down to get hot 
coffee for the poor exhausted girl. The refreshment restored 
her. She would not lie down ; but having changed her dress 
descended to the library, whence she could see the approaches 
to the house, and there she waited, sitting by the window. 

An open carriage drove up to the door at half-past nine, 
with Gerard and Mr. Athol. As Gerard put his foot upon the 
steps the door opened, and he saw Lady Betty standing before 
him white as a ghost. 

“ What has happened ? ” she cried pressing forward to meet 

him. 

“Nothing to pain you,” answered Gerard. “I have shaken 
hands with Mr. Talbot, and neither of us has received a 
scratch.” 

Then Lady Betty began to laugh, wdiile the tears dripped 
from her face. 

There was breakfast and Mrs. Walker in the morning-room, 
and thither Lady Betty led Gerard with hysterical gaiety. 

They sat at table until half-past - ten, and then Gerard, 
seeing that Lady Betty was still in an unnatural state of 
excitement, proposed that they should go for a drive. Mrs. 
Walker declined, the hour being yet too early for her to 
appear in public, but agreed that it would be well for Lady 
Betty to take -the air. So Lady Betty ran up to her room and 
arrayed herself in her best to celebrate the day, and took her 
seat, in the carriage radiant with renewed joy. 

The fresh air did not allay her excitement, and as she 
entered the park she laughed to think how miserably wretched 
she had wandered there but a few hours since. She was in a 
mood to look at all things in their gayest, brightest aspect. 
She laughed at every jest, and Mr. Athol, who had not hitherto 
been encouraged to regard himself as a wit, flattered with the 
reception given by Lady Betty to his slightest rallies, exerted 
himself to the utmost to be agreeable and witty. 

And so, bright and beautiful, her mourning-dress discarded, 
and replaced with a costume of coquettish fashion, her face beam- 
ing with sunny mirth, unt inged with the shadow of a single 
grave reflection, she passed before Tom’s eyes, passed, sitting 
beside the man who had challenged him, and vis-a-vis with the 
grinning dandy who had served as liis second. 


9-2 


132 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


“ I might be dead and buried, and the very stone rotting 
over me, for all she thinks of me,” said Tom, with a groan. 

Then he turned his downcast face towards Holborn, having 
now no further wish to gratify. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

AT THE “ LONE CROW.” 

On the outskirts of Woking village stood an inn called the 
“ Lone Crow,” a broken-down inn that had lost all traces of 
respectability, if ever it had pretended to respect. The stable 
gate was broken and patched with a piece of the broken horse- 
trough, the windows were broken and stuffed with otherwise 
useless articles of apparel, a corner of the square brick-chimney 
was broken, the thatch was broken and mended here and there 
with tufts of heather, and last of all the sign was broken, and 
only the tail end of the “ lone crow ” was left in the frame. 

It was six in the evening, and the rain, which had been 
falling with steady persistency since midday, fell still with 
undiminished pertinacity; nevertheless a traveller with 
ordinary scruples would have declined to take shelter there, 
though all other inns in Woking were full, and lie had to 
trudge on to Bagsliot for a bed. 

Lieutenant Barnabas Crewe, however, was as free from 
ordinary scruples as the host of the “ Lone Crow ” could desire, 
and so, when he caught sight of the inn, whose dismal exterior 
was to some degree redeemed by the reflected glow of a lire 
upon the dirty surviving panes of the window, he reined up his 
stee and as Slink came to his heels, said : 

“ This looks like a good inn ; we will put up here out of the 
cursed weather.” 

Slink might have had his doubts about the appearance of 
the inn, but he was entirely at one with his master respecting 
the weather, so he slipped off his gasping horse without a 
, word, and applied the butt of his whip to the stable-gate. 

“ Ilei ! hei ! hei ! ” called the host from within, in response 
to the vigorous appeal, “do you want to knock the blessed 
gate off its hinges P ” 

“ It wouldn’t be much the worse for a new pair,” said 
Slink, regarding the ingenious arrangement of old rope and 
shoe-leather by which the gate was connected with the post. 

The host, having opened the door of the inn and seen at a 


AT THE " LONE CEOW. : 


133 


glance the quality of his visitors,, ran round to the back of the 
house, and with as much speed as possible opened the gate, 
which was not to be done in the mere turning a key, for several 
beams which served to shore it up had first to be removed, and 
then the gate required careful lifting in order that the weight 
and strain might not fall so heavily upon the shoe-leather as 
to over-tax its strength, which could have but one result — the 
fall and utter ruin of the gate. 

“ You’d best jump down here, Captain, and go into the 
house by the front-door ; the yard’s a bit moist-like with the 
damp,” said the host. “I’ll look arter the bosses.” 

“ Oh no, you won’t,” said Barnabas, dismounting. “ I want 
my horse fed ; my man will look after the horses.” 

“Oh, that’s your sort, is it?” said the host, sullenly. 
“Well, in that case, your man can get through the yard as he 
can. He’ll find the stable right afore him, and the clover up 
in the loft.” 

Slink waded to the building indicated through the muck of 
years which festered in the yard. 

The stable was in a better state of repair than the house, 
because, perhaps, the proprietor, not feeling himself called 
upon to regard external appearances in that which was less 
exposed to the public notice, had not patched it. It was as 
Nature had made it, an unpretentious ruin. At the dry end of 
the barn — it made no pretence to be a stable, except in having 
a trough against the wall, and a horsey smell — were a cow and 
an ass, which Slink promptly removed to make room for his 
own cattle, whose well-being was now the sole object of all his 
cares and hopes. 

Meanwhile, the landlord of the “Lone Crow” — a thick-set, 
heavy man, with a broken nose and other facial peculiarities of 
a pugilist — having shored up his gate, returned to his tap-room, 
where he found his guest carefully arranging his wet coat and 
hat upon chairs in front, of the fire. He stood looking on in 
silence, turning a straw over in his mouth, until Barnabas 
turned and perceived him. 

“ You’ve got the fire all to yourself, Captain,” he remarked. 

“Yes, and I want something more. I’m told you have 
sausages in the house. Let me have them at once, and get your 
best bed-room straight. We shall stay all night.” 

“ Oh, will you ! ” The landlord spat out the straw, and 
then continued: “Look here, Captain, I don’t waste no 
time, * fibbin’ and no feintin’V my motter. Money down, 
old Trust’s dead. ‘ No money no match,’ and that’s another of 
my motters.” 


134 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


“Confound your motters!. Do you suppose a gentleman’s 
going to pay his reckoning before it’s due P” 

“ I don’t want to know nothing about no gentlemen, and if 
I did it ain’t very likely I should ask you for information. I 
may have had more gents a-backing me than ever you dreamed 
on. Anyway, I want a crown down and your sturrups.” 

“ And supposing I don’t choose to give a crown down and 
my stirrups — what then ? ” 

“ Why then, Captain, out ye go. You can walk out or I’ll 
put you out, which you like — and your man after you, and 
your horses after him. I’m not particular if it comes to a 
turn-up. A fair warning and no favour shown is what I say.” 

“ You’re forgetting yourself, my fine fellow,” said Barnabas, 
disliking the look of tilings. 

“Don’t you fear, the Woking Walloper’s got too good an 
opinion of hisself to forget who he is.” 

“Oh, if you’re the Woking Wolloper that makes a 
difference. You can go and take the stirrups.” 

“ And the crown P ” 

“ There.” Barnabas threw down a crown-piece with 
reluctance. 

“ That’s business. Now we’ll shake hands and lead off. I’ll 
take care of the sturrups ; they shan’t leave my sight, you may 
wager. Will you cook the sausages yourself ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Then the missis shall bring ’em to you. Now we know 
each other. ‘Make your match and come to the scratch/ 
there’s a m otter for you ! ” 

When Slink entered the tap-room he found his master in his 
shirt-sleeves a-straddle before the scorching fire that burnt 
upon the hearth, shielding his face with one arm, while with 
the other hand lie held a long-handled frying-pan in which a 
couple of pounds of sausages were hissing and sizzling over the 
embers. Slink disposed of his wet coat, and sat down with 
that patient silence and immobility which characterises country 
servants in the presence of their proper lords. 

In due course master and man dined together, the Walloper 
supplying their wants with the utmost assiduity now that they 
had shaken hands and were working steady, according to the 
rules of the ropes, as he put it. He even brought a pair of 
shoes for Slink to wear while his own dilapidated boots — 
which had been given him in exchange for the perfectly sound 
pair that the Lieutenant now wore — were drying. 

After dinner Barnabas lit a long clay pipe, cleared a corner 
of the table, drew up his chair so as to command a view of the 


AT THE “LONE CROW.” 


135 


fire, and "bringing a pack of dirty cards from liis pocket, nodded 
to Slink, who, in response, placed his chair vis-a-vis with his 
master, and heaving a deep sigh of resignation, licked his 
finger and thumb. With indefatigable patience Barnabas had 
taught his follower to play piquet, and now reaped the reward of 
his pains by repeatedly fleecing him every night of what change 
remained from the sum he had given him in the morning. 

There was no play in the game, for Slink had to make all his 
calculations with his fingers, and was slow at that. But 
Barnabas had a certain sense of humour which was tickled by 
the errors of his adversary, and the simplicity with which lie 
allowed himself to be tricked. Besides that, it was agreeable 
to him to cheat at all times, though he did but win his own 
money by the transaction. 

“ How much money have you, Slink? ” said Barnabas, draw- 
ing a card. 

u Two shillings and a gr’at, your honour.” 

“ Put it down on the table, then. Ah, you’ve won the draw. 
Deal.” 

Slink laid out his money, wetted his thumb and finger again, 
and dealt out the twenty-four cards, wishing from the bottom 
of his soul that he might be lucky enough to lose his two and 
fourpence by a single hand. But there was no such luck for 
him. His cards were so provokingly good thatnothing but the 
ingenuity of Lieutenant Crewe prevented his making u capot ” 
time after time. If, endeavouring to terminate the game, he 
threw away three aces, he picked up three kings of the same 
suits, and when he discarded a quint to the knave, he took up 
another to the ace. Fort une opposed his losing, Barnabas took 
care that he should not win. Slink longed to be with his 
horses in the stable — to be anywdiere except with his master 
playing piquet. It was otherwise with Barnabas. The diffi- 
culty of winning against such cards, and the necessity of having 
Slink’s money, were a zest to the game which made him in no 
hurry to finish it. 

With the villagers there had dropped in during the evening 
a pedlar, a loud, red-faced rascal, with a husky voice and an 
Irish brogue, who laid himself out to amuse the company, and 
succeeded to a marvel. He told stories with witty points, a 
little broad, perhaps, but such as all who heard could under- 
stand and laugh at ; and he sang songs— Irish ballads, and the 
popular songs by Mr. Dibdin, and all with the same chorus, in 
which everyone" could join without reference to the subject, 
words, or tune, and with an accompaniment of feet and empty 
pots. 


136 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


Now Slink loved music ; in liis happier days he could himself 
sing when called upon, and also he admired wit of the broad 
kind ; so when he heard the singing and laughter he felt that 
he could have given his ears to know what it was all about, 
and to join in the general jollity. But his master kept him to 
the game, challenging him and shouting out his points above 
the voice of the pedlar, and when he paused in his play to 
catch the point of a story or the burden of a song, Barnabas 
recalled him to a sense of duty by a smart kick on the shin, 
than which there are few other methods more speedily effective. 

And so they played on until the villagers went home, and 
the pedlar retired, and the candle guttered down to the socket, 
and the unhappy Slink was so bewildered that he could not tell 
the difference between the king of diamonds and the ace of 
spades. Then the landlord of the house came and interfered. 

“ Captain,” said he, “ it’s time to pull up the stakes for this 
bout. There’s a time for everything, as the motter says.” 

“ Another candle,” demanded Barnabas. Slink groaned. 

“ No more candles tornight, Captain. And as you don’t know 
your way about the premises, I advise you to go to bed while 
your wick’s burning.” 

“In that case, Slink, this must be a drawn game, and — ” 
sweeping up the money, “ so we are quits.” 

“ Oh, fair and square ! ” interfered the landlord. “ I’ll get a 
candle if you’re in the middle of a round.” 

“No — the master’s won — we’re quits,” cried Slink, throwing 
up the cards, hastily. 

“ Well, if it’s a drawn match — both principals agreeing — it’s 
another thing ; and now I’ll show you the way to your room. 
There’s a bed for you, Captain, and another for your man.” 

“ Much obliged to you, master, but the loft for me,” said 
Slink. 

The privilege of sleeping in hay-lofts was jealously main- 
tained by Slink, because in the first place, it was more agree- 
able to lie upon clean straw than in the musty rooms of the inns 
they frequented, and secondly, it afforded him a temporary 
escape from the society of Lieutenant Barnabas Crewe. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

IN THE LOFT. 

Haying shaken some fresh clover in the trough, and given a 
parting caress to his horses, Slink, lantern in hand, scaled the 


IN THE LOFT. 137 

ladder set perpendicularly against the wall, and scrambled on 
to the floor of the loft. 

“ Hilloa ! Who goes ? ” cried a voice from the obscurity. 

Slink raised his lantern, and looking in the direction from 
which the voice proceeded, perceived a man well bedded in 
straw, sitting up between the trusses of hay which he had 
arranged as a protection against the wind. Slink’s face, which 
had lengthened considerably on hearing the voice, expanded 
into a broad smile of satisfaction as he recognised the features 
of the jovial pedlar. 

“ Ah thin, ’tis you, my noble gamester, what’s come to take 
up your quarthers wid me, eh P ” the pedlar said cheerfully, 
seeing the face beyond the lantern. 

“ If you’ve no objection, master.” 

“ Devil a one. There’s enough rats for the both of us, and 
I’m not graedy. You’ve a taste of the quality wid ye that tuk 
me fancy when I see you a playin’ for silver wid your masther. 
Come, we’ll raconstruct the apartment and spind a pleasant 
hour together.” 

“You don’t play piquet, do you?” Slink asked with 
apprehension. 

“ Piquet — sure I played ut wance when I was in the army 
every night of my life — and I’ve forgotten it entoirely. But 
if nothin’ but gamin’ will contint ye — ye gamblin’ spicleative 
divil, I’ll play yer at all-fours, shove-h’p’ny,. or any other gin- 
teel divilment.” 

“I’d rather listen to one of those songs of yours with a 
chorus.” 

“ Yir a flattherer for certain — an’ would you sincarely love to 
hear a ball id ? ” 

“ By the lord Harry, I would ; and if you can tell one of 
those stories again that made all the folk laugh.” 

“ I nivir repate, but if it’s stories you want, sure I’ll contint 
ye. A bit more straw and another bundle of hay will make us 
as comfortable as a couple of pigs in a sty. Holy saints, we 
will make a night of it — give us another bundle of hay, darlint ; 
and if you can pull the shate so as keep the rain t’other side of 
the hole in the roof t’will be nater and swater.” 

The “shate” alluded to was the cover of a cart propped 
against the roof by the posts of an old bedstead and the trunk 
of an apple-tree to preserve the hay from the rain that drifted 
through the broken roof. Slink re-arranged this contrivance 
with beneficial effect, while the pedlar opened his pack, dived 
into or.e corner and brought out a stone bottle. 

“ There,” said he, as Slink returned and entered the nest 


138 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


they had made with the hay — 11 take the trouble to put your 
nose to that, and tell me what is your true opinion of ut ? ” 

“ It smells good,” said Slink. 

“ And you’ll find that it tastes aqual, for it’s not only a smell 
you shall have of it — it’s the rael gintale usquebaugh — a liquor 
that’s too good to be drunk in solitude. ’Tis like love an’ 
fightin’ and all the blessed gifts of natur, only to be enjoyed by 
a couple whose hearts respond to the swate influence of each 
other’s society.” 

“ I’m your man,” said Slink, sententiously. 

“ By Saint Moses, yir my friendj sorr ! ” The pedlar had 
already tasted the usquebaugh, and his soul was touched with 
characteristic celerity. “ Y’are about the finest Saxon and the 
bist friend I iver had in my life. Give us your hand, and putt 
your lips to the delicate mouth of the bottle. If ye hadn’t 
woke me up, by the powers I shouldn’t have gone to sleep agin 
for the rest of the night. I’m about the miserablest man to be 
alone that iver molested society ; but with a companion to talk 
to and a bottle to drink at — whurroli ! pass the darlint to me.” 

“ Will you sing a song now P ” 

“Will I sing you a song! hunthreds. What shall it be, 
somethin’ meltin and swate like the 1 Leather Breeches,” or 
somethin nate and purty about swatelieartin’.” 

“Sweethearting,” said Slink, with a sigh for his lost Jenny. 

Without any preliminary hesitation, the pedlar sang an Irish 
ballad, and with such tenderness, that Slink, who thought of 
Jenny all the while, was moved to tears at the third verse. 
Flattered by this tribute to his power the pedlar, who like the 
rest of his countrymen, was an excellent emotionalist, redoubled 
his efforts, and absolutely wept in sympathy, when Slink 
having tried in vain to assuage his tears with the back of his 
hand, laid his arm on the hay and his face on his arm, and 
sobbed. 

“ Take a taste from the bottle, my friend,” said the pedlar, 
when he had finished. 

Slink held out his hand, and as he took the bottle, mur- 
mured in a voice still choked with grief : 

“ Now let’s have a story.” 

“ Ah, and you’re a man after my own heart. Ye’d smoile an’ 
soigh by turns. Bid y’ ever hear of the old woman who lost 
her darning-needle ? ” 

“ No-oh-oh-oh ! ” answered Slink, laughing in anticipation, 
as a vague suspicion of the highly diverting circumstances in 
which she discovered the whereabouts of the missing article 
flashed across his mind. “No-oh-oh-oh l” 


BLARNEY. 


139 


u It's a moightv divarting story, so here goes.” 

And he went forthwith, telling the simple anecdote with 
such dry humour that Slink had to hold his sides, cross his legs, 
and bend double under the painful difficulty of drawing breath, 
so violent was his laughter — finally in a feeble voice crying, 
“ Don’t — don’t ! ” when the pedlar brought his story to the 
long withheld climax. 

After that the pedlar sang “ Tom Bowling,” and for the sake 
of good fellowship introduced a chorus of “ Derry, derry down,” 
in which Slink exhibited the strength of his luugs with such 
prodigious effect, that the pedlar thought it wise to let him 
have the chorus all to himself, and merely marked time with 
his pipe, while he kept a steady eye on the rafters. 

“ Y’ave a foine voice, my darlint,” said the pedlar, when the 
song was concluded — “ A foine voice for the open air.” 

“ Thank you, master. I’ll sing you a song if you like.” 

** I shall appraciate the obligation. Let it be a throifle sub- 
dued, case the landlord should feel onaisey about his property.” 

Slink nodded, took a drink, wiped his lips, and with the 
simple announcement, u ’Are an’ oun’s, gents,” sang that admi- 
rable song, “ The Hare and the Hounds.” After that the cocks 
for several miles round awoke and crowed in defiance. 


CHAPTER XXX. • 

BLABNEY. 

The two friends continued their mutual entertainment long 
after the candle in the lantern had passed away. They could 
sing, and laugh, and cry just as well without a light as with it ; 
the only difference that the darkness made to them was that 
the bottle had to be nursed with care, and handed backwards 
and forwards frequently for an assurance of its safety ; but 
when the bottle was emptied their voices grew feebler, and 
unconsciously they fell asleep. 

For awhile there was peace, but just as the outlines of objects 
became visible in the opening light of the morning, two shrieks 
broke the stillness of the hour. Two shrieks in quick succession 
— the first from the pedlar, the second from Slink — and then 
followed a hurried dialogue. 

“ My frind — my frind — have you got ut ? ” 

“ Got it P I should think I have — what is it? ” 

“ A rat — a rat. I felt it at my throat. Holy saints ! another 


3 40 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


moment and my veins would have been sucked — ’twas a vam- 
pire. I saized am by the throat, and flung it into the atrnos- 
phaire.” 

u Yes, and it fell on my shin.” 

“ And what have you done wid itP” 

“Nothing. Lord Harry! it’s broken my shin.” 

“ And did you let it escape you aftlier all.” 

“ Escape me — do you think I see it. coming.” 

“ And was it a vampire or a rat P ” 

“ Rat, no ! ’ Twas the stone bottle.” 

“ The stone bottle ! Saints be praised for their marciful 
protection — look at that now ! ” 

Slink had less reason to be grateful to the saints : and for 
some time he was occupied in ascertaining whether his shin- 
bone was broken or only the skin. However, having been able 
to walk across the loft with tolerable facility, he felt satisfied 
that he had nothing to deplore but a bruise, and was returning 
to his sympathising friend when he slipped his foot and unin- 
sured leg through a hole in the rotten floor, and the pain of 
having his second shin barked soon made him forget his 
original injury, which was a merciful dispensation of the all- 
protecting saints, which the pedlar did not fail to point out to 
the sufferer. 

As it was impossible for Slink to sleep with his shins in 
such a tender condition that the slightest movement was pain- 
ful, and as the pgdlar was a man who would never sleep if he 
could get any one to listen to him, and he was sober enough to 
talk, they reclined and conversed, with a gravity suited to the 
circumstances, and unavoidable now that the usquebaugh was 
drunk. 

“ Y’ ’ave a jewel of a masther, my boy, that ’ll condiscend to 
make an aqual of ye, and play a friendly hand of cards wid ye 
now and then.” 

“ Every night.” 

u Ye gamblin’ divels ! ’Tis a privilege y’ have to be trated 
like a fnnd, but maybe its considthered in the wages. How 
much moiglit y’ have a month, now ? ” 

“ I don’t know ’zactly, about five shillings a day.” 

“ Foive shilluns a day, darlint ! Why ’tis as much as I make 
in a week, sometimes ! An’ what do you do wid it all ? ” 

“ Lose it at cards.” 

“ Ah ! that makes it a bit aisy for the master. And what 
do you do, now, for your wages ? ” 

“ Nothing.” 

u It is the masther that does the work, maybe P ” 


BLARNEY. 


141 


Slink was silent ; he had been cautioned to hold his tongue 
with respect to the Lieutenant’s occupation, or to speak only 
in support of his character as an independent gentleman. 

“ P’raps ye’ll tell me if he’s a Captun ? ” pursued the pedlar, 
with soft persuasiveness. 

“ He’s a cut above a Captain, I can tell you, he’s a Lieu- 
tenant.” 

“ What, a rale soldier ? faith, then, we’re as like as twm 
cherries, for I was a sergeant myself at wan time. And what 
regiment was he in ? ” 

“ You don’t suppose he was in a regiment like a common 
soldier, do you P He was a Lieutenant all to himself ; one of 
the independent Lieutenants.” 

“I appraciate the distinction, an’ I respect the masther for it. 
I knew he was somethin’ out of the common the first morment 
I saw him. He’s not wan of your civil spokin’ maley-mouthed 
varments ; hut a rale aristocrat, with a gintale curse and a 
scowl for anyone that asks him a civil question.” 

" Yes, that’s him.” 

“ The quality, mv boy, quality. An’ oi’l wager, now, he does 
nothin’ in the world at all but ride about the country brakun the 
hearts of the famale sex and a pickin’ their pockuts.” 

“ No, he don’t,” said Slink, in a tone of feeble opposition. 

“ Come, my boy, you’re tkrying to decaive me by sayin’ 
nothun. You don’t think I’m a dirty informer, that would sell 
the gallant Lieutenant to the constables for a paltry reward, 
do you ? ” 

“ Not I.” 

“ Thin whoy should you try to decaive me P ’Tisn’t behaviu’ 
like yeself at all. I didn’t think you would be so mane after 
sharing my bottle of usquebaugh, and persuadin’ me to sit up 
all the night a singin’ ballads to ye, and tellin’ all the best 
itories I knowed.” 

“ I — I — I don’t want to be mean. I’m very much obliged to 
you for your kindness. I — I never enjoyed myself better in all 
my life, and if I could repay you for' your kindness, I would 
with all my heart.” 

“ But ye can niver repay me, darlint. Disinterested friend- 
ship is priceless. So what does the masther do now, ridin’ 
about wid a servant % at his back ? ” 

“ Well, there’s a rascal who owes him a lot of money, and — 
and he’s looking about for him, and — and — and he don’t seem 
to quite remember the looks of him, and — and — and when he 
meets anyone all alone, he just looks in his pocket to see if the 
money belongs to him, and — and if he’s in doubt he takes it.” 


142 


LIEUTENANT .BARNABAS. 


u I onoerstand the natur’ of the masther’s misfortun exactly j 
and what might you do all the time ? ” 

" Why, I just stand ready to help master, if needs be ; for if 
we meet the right rascal after all, it’s more an’ likely he’ll try 
to get away without paying ? ” 

“ Just precoisely so.” The pedlar repeated the words again 
and again, rather than he silent during the period he gave to 
reflection, then he said : “ And y’are moighty fond of the pro- 
fession, o’il warrant.” 

Slink sighed. 

“ Ye like the divilment of it, and the hoigh wages, and the 
card playin’; and all that.” The pedlar waited some time for a 
response, and getting none, dropped his voice to the most 
seductive tone of blarney and continued — “ Darlint ! Oi love ye 
— oi love ye from the bottom of my heart. If I could do any- 
thing to sarve ye oi’d spare no ifforts. Now tell me, tell me 
true now — wud ye loike another sitiwation ? ” 

Slink after a "moment’s feverish hesitation, bent over and 
whispered : 

“ I can’t leave him, God help me.” 

“ Whoy, darlint ?” 

Slink dared not speak. 

“ Spake, my dear friend, spake. Trust me now.” 

“ Take your oath you’ll tell no one.” 

“ J wad take my dyin’ oath a dozen toimes, darlint. Do you 
think I would betray ye ? Spake and trost me loike your own 
blessed mother.” 

“ I — I was a simple sort of lad, once.” 

“ And y’are simple, simple as the innocent sheep — g’on 
darlint.” 

:i And I was so druv up into a corner like with the cruelty of 
my sweetheart, as I didn’t half know what I was doing, and I 
met the Lieutenant, and he said he was a gentleman wanting 
a servant, and he persuaded me to run away from the Hall 
where I was groom, and he made me believe that I had the 
same right to take the horse I rode as the livery I wore, and 
when I felt uneasy like about it, he gave me his horse and took 
mine to make me think I was safe, and then we began to go 
about the country, and raced the baker ” 

“ Stop one moment — I don’t quite understand the tarmes of 
the profession — and what do you mane by dicing the baker ? ” 

Slink recounted the adventure with the baker, and continued 
— “ So things went on from bad to worse, till I see at last the 
whole truth when his honour robbed a butcher’s wife of six- 
teen pence, and we had to bolt for our lives when we caught sight 


BLARNEY. 


141 


of a couple of constables at our heels. I was for giving- back 
my horse and leaving the master next day, but he wouldn’t 
accept the horse, and swore he would blow my brains out or 
give me up to the law and have me hanged for horse stealing, 
if I didn’t keep true to him. And now — I’m a ruined man, 
and may God forgive me.” 

“ The Lieutenant is a ganius — he’s got y’under his thumb, 
very nately. And I’d wager he’s got the rale true Irish blood 
in his veins, for there’s not. another people that’s got their in- 
genuity. What’s his name, honey ? ” 

“ Lieutenant Barnabas Crewe.” 

“ Say ut again, darlint.” The pedlar, without changing the 
tone of his voice, spoke with rapidity and evident excitement. 
“ Barnabas Crewe.” 

<( Barney Crewe ! Faith ’tis a moighty odd accident. Tell 
me true now. Do you know anything of his family relations ? ” 
“ I have never seen any.” 

u You never heard him speak of them in his conversation 
wid ye ? ” 

“ We never have any conversation — except at piquet.” 

“ He’s got the small-pox, too, an’ he moight be about thirty 
years of age.” 

“ Yes ; what of that ? ” 

“ You niver heard him spake of anyone ? Now, recollect 
yourself, and don’t spake till ye can answer.” 

“ He used to ask a good many questions about my old 
master,” Slink replied, after some minutes of reflection, “ and 
Doctor Blandly.” 

“ Docthor Blandly I An’ what was your old master’s name ?*' 
11 Admiral Talbot.” 

“ Admiral Talbot! Merciful powers! An’ has Barney seen 
the old Admiral P ” 

“ The Admiral’s dead.” 

“ An’ who’s got the foine estate P ” 

“ His son, Master Tom, I think. ’ 

“ Bad cess to him ! ” 
u What’s the matter, master ? ” 

“Notliun — nothun at all.” 

And with these words the pedlar concluded the conversation, 
and soon afterwards, without communicating his intention to 
Slink, he scrambled out of the straw and descended the ladder, 
leaving his companion in a state of complete mystification and 
dread. 


144 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS, 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

REVELATION. 

The morning was yet early when Lieutenant Crewe was awoke 
by the fall of the chair he had set against the lock to keep the 
door fast. 

“ Who’s there P ” he called, shoving his hand under the pillow 
for his pistol. 

“ Only me, Barney, darlint,” answered the pedlar, showing 
his head and shoulders. 

“ If it is only you I shall blow out your brains if you don’t 
take yourself off.” 

The pedlar withdrew hastily as Barnabas cocked the pistol, 
and spoke in his blandest tones from the safe side of the door. 

“ Barney, I’ve a matter of tremenjous importince to communi- 
cate to ye. Uncock your pistol, dear boy.” 

“ What’s the matter — the horses — Slink P ” 

“ They’re slapeing loike the babe in the cot. ’Tis of family 
affairs I wish to spake wid ye.” 

“ Family affairs ? ” 

“ Consarning the Crewes, and the Talbots, and the Docthor 
Blandly.” 

“ Come in.” 

“ Uncock your murthering pistol, darlint.” 

Without uncocking the weapon Barnabas made a sound with 
the lock as if he had, and slipped the pistol under the blanket. 
Thieves never feel safe. 

“ You’re safe ; come in,” he called. 

The pedlar entered, and after closing the door, drew near to 
the bed. 

“That’s near enough, don’t come closer,” said Barnabas 
moving his hand under the blanket. 

“ Sure you’ve nothin’ to fear from an old mun loike me, and 
your own counthryman.” 

“ Do you take me for a confounded teague ? ” 

“And by that same token y’are. And what foiner proof 
could be wanted than your illegant custom of slapeing in your 
clothes. What’s ye got onder the blanket ? ” 

“ The barker. It’s quiet enough when there’s no cause to use 
it. What have you to say ? ” 

“ Tell me truly now. Is Barney Crewe your rale name or 
your professional name P” 

“ ’Tis my own name.” 


REVELATION. 


145 


w And what age moight ye he? Moind I’m puttin’ these 
questions for your own sake, me dear boy.” 

“ I take it I’m about eight-and-twentv.” 

“ Do you remember aitker your father or your mother P ” 

“No.” 

“ Now, look at me full in the face. Does your bowels yearn 
towards me ?” 

“ No.” 

“ Now doesn’t an angel’s voice same to whisper to ye that 
I’m all the kith and kin y’ever had in the wurld that’s left to 
ye?” 

“ What the devil do you mean ? ” 

“ Can you rade, Barney ? ” asked the pedlar, bringing a snuff- 
box from his pocket. 

“No.” 

“ That’s another proof that y’ are a blessed son of St. Patrick. 
If you could rade you would see that the name engravin’ on 
the back of this box, that was presented to me by your own 
mother, is — Barney Crewe.” 

“ What are you driving at ? 

“ Barney, you bear the same name as mine becase y’are my 
eldest son — by your mother. And now take yer hand from the 
slaughtering pistol and embrace me.” 

“ No, thank you.” 

“ Y’ave the cold Saxon blood in your veins — your mother’s 
blood, and she was a cold and calculatun woman as iver drew 
the blessed breath of life. Ye’ll break me heart with your 
cruelty, ye will.” 

The father wiped his eyes. 

“ Don’t let’s have any confounded nonsense. Here, take this 
piece and fetch a noggin of rum.” 

“ Sure it’s the blessed voice of my own flesh and blood that 
spakes that same. Will y’ave any wather to spoil the gift of 
Natur’, darlint?” 

“ Oh, curse the water ; the innkeeper takes care that we shall 
have enough of that.” 

“ Good again. Y’are Irish to the backbone of ye.” 

While the father hurried off to get the required spirit, his 
son renewed the priming of his pistol, set it where it could be 
reached at a moment, and slipping out of bed made all the toilet 
that was necessary to him — in a word, he pulled on his boots. 

The names mentioned by the pedlar had rekindled his desire 
to know why Doctor Blandly made the annual payment to him 
and Gerard, a desire which had lately dwindled in the entire 
absence of any element to sustain it. He hoped to discover in 

10 


146 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


the circumstances of his birth some fact which would enable 
him to turn the tables on Doctor Blandly, and force him to 
increase the sum he paid with such reluctance. 

The pedlar quickly returned with the rum, but he would not 
spoil the pleasure of drinking it by a line of conversation which 
might engross their thoughts too deeply. He confined himself 
to general remarks until the cup was drained, then he returned 
to the subject which Barnabas was now eager to pursue. 

“Barney, my boy, I’ve somethun to tell you ay moighty 
importance. Ye must know that I’ve had the honour of slapein’ 
in the same chamber wid your valet, an’ a proud moment it 
was when I diskivered that it was my own son that kept a 
sarvent and horses, an’ did nothin’ in the wurld but ride about 
the counthry like a gentleman. He’s a dacent sort of a boy, 
your valet, but ye give him too much liberty, Barney, and any 
wan but your own father would have persuaded him to turn 
King’s evidence agin ye for the paltry reward offered for the 
apprehension of the likes of you.” 

“ What has he told you — confound him ? ” 

“ Nothun’ at all, nothun’ in the world. But be careful wid 
him, darlint.” 

“ Go on.” 

“ When I larnt your name I just descended into the fresh air 
and took a stroll up an down under the blessed sky of heaven 
till the man opened the house, and all the time I was a-thinkun’, 
Barney, and a-thinkun, with all the power of my mind, and I 
said intarnally, ‘ There’s the hand of a merciful Providence in 
all this, and somethin’s to be made out of ut^ or my name’s not 
Barney O'Crewo.’ But first and foremost, my boy, we must 
have no resarve, we must riv’rance the holy tie that binds us 
together — father and son, and kape no secrets. So before I 
whisper a word ye’ll just understand that we’re to go halves, 
share and share alike in the blessed gifts that Providence may 
shower upon us.” 

“ Halves ; all right.” Barnabas saw no objection to making 
promises which only his word could bind him to keep. 

“ I’ll trust ye, Barney, I’ll trust ye becase y’are my own son, 
and becase it’ll be to your own interest to kape your word. 
Now, tell me true, darlint, do you know your own brother ? ” 

“ Gerard P Little enough. He’s in London, living the life 
of a lord, and a beggarly guinea or two now and then is all I 
get out of him.” 

Barney O’Crewe reflected a moment, then — 

“And that’s all you know about your brother? ” he said. 

“ That’s all.” 


A RETROSPECT. 


147 


“ And Doctor Blandly — what do you know of him p ” 

“He gives me two hundred a year, and threatens to stop it 
if I don’t humble myself like a cur when I go and take the 
quarterly allowance.” 

“ And d’ye happen to know what he pays you the money 

“ No — that is — no.” 

“Don’t decave me, darlint; y’ hesitated. What was you 
about to spake ? ” 

“ I believe he pays it to me not on his own account, but for 
some one else.” 

“ Misther Talbot, the son of the Admiral ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ An’ you don’t know what for he pays it ? ” 

“ No. I tried to find out, but the old scoundrel promised to 
stop payment if I ever put a word of inquiry to Mr. Talbot, 
and he’d do it too.” 

“ An’ you know nothin’ of Misther Talbot P ” 

“Nothing, I’m told that he spends his time travelling in 
foreign parts.” 

“ Y’ave never made an inquiry at Talbot Hall P ” 

“No; I’m afraid to do that for fear of Doctor Blandly.” 

“ Barney, darlint, I’ll tell ye a little story, and every word on 
it as true as the blesssd saints.” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

A RETROSPECT. 

“ When I was a young man, ajtrifle younger than you, I was a 
thunderin’ handsome boy as ye could mate wid of a summer’s 
day. If ye look at me a bit you’ll see the traces of a foine fel- 
low. There’s a curl in my hair, my teeth are still whoite and 
good, and my eyes have a roguish twinkle in ’em ; for the rest 
of my faitures, they’ve suffered by hard work and my sorrers. 
I was a dashun,’ dare-devil boy, with nothun’ in the world but 
my good looks, my impedence, and my blarney, and seein’ that 
I was a soight too good for county Cork, I engaged myself as 
body sarvant to a foine gentleman going to London town. 
Wan night, when my mast.her was laid up wid a hole in his 
side that he’d got from another foine gentleman he’d called out 
in a duel, I took a holiday, and wishin’ to appear like a rale 
gentleman, I borrowed his clothes and went out in ’em. As I 

10—2 


J 48 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


was strolling ale tig the Mall in all the majesty of man, I passed 
a swate widder. She was nayther young nor beautiful, but 
she looked prosperous, and a saucy leer in her eye seemed to 
whisper to m v soul that she’d more property than she knew 
what to do wid alone. Says I to myself, ‘ Barney, my darlint, 
there’s the wife that’s waitun for ye.’ 

“I walked on a hundred yards and then turned round. 
She’d turned round aqually, and when we drew nair she dropped 
her fan, which I picked up wid all the grace imaginable, and 
presented to her wid an iligant spach — which my own masther 
would have been proud to have spaken. Ye may he sure I 
didn’t lose the opportunity w r hich Providence had given me, 
and before I left her I had talked all I knew about hearts and 
darts, and Cupids and Yanuses, and perishin’ and languishin,’ 
an’ all what I’d heard my masther sayun in similar situations, 
and made an appointment to meet her the next day. She 
wanted me to write a letter, but I wodn’t agree to ut, for 
writing a letter would have placed me in a moighty awkward 
predicament, seeing I didn’t know the letter A from a bull’s 
fut. I towld the swate craturthat my passion was too strong 
for writun, and I must see her and spake to her wid my eyes 
or parish in despair. 

“ That’s the way you must spake to the female sex to plase 
’em. Thank the powers, my masther’s wound grew worse in- 
stead of better, and so I conth rived to mate the widder again 
and again in his foine embroidered clothes, and I made love to 
her just for all the world as if I maned it. And so matters 
went on flourishing until the masther’s wound growed aisier, 
and he began to suspict me, and I saw that I must make my 
hay all of a hurry afore the storm came. 

“ I was not wrong in my ideas ; the widder was prosperous. 
Her husband had left her two thousand pounds and an iligant 
shop in the drapery business. So as there was no time to lose, 
I proposed to the swate crater, and married her the very day 
my masther got well enough to kick me out of the house, 
borrowin’ a suit of clothes for the occasion of agintlemanthat 
made it his trade to buy up old coats of the gentry’s sarvints. 
The widder was moighty surprised when she found that 1 had 
nothun at all in the wurld but the clothes I stood in, and them 
not my own ; but she was too much bothered with love to take 
a thrifle like that to heart, and before a week was over she had 
forgiven me everything, and was plased to let me have all that 
I naded, includin’ a pocketf ull of money. So then I was a ralo 
gentleman, Barney, wid nutliun to do but to spend the widder’s 
money, get drunk, and make love to the gals. 


A RETROSPECT. 


149 


u I hadn’t been married more than a month when I fell 
dasperate in love with a charming cratur, who played the pieces 
with delicate sentiment at the King’s Theatre in Covent Garden. 
Her name was Patty Davies, and I till you true, Barney, that 
I cried till I was ashamed of myself in sympathy with her vartue 
and innocence when I saw her representin’ Ophalia. I loved 
her the first time I saw her, and to the vorey last I loved her 
sincarely and hardly anyone better. I bought her jewels, I 
bought her fine dresses, I lavished the widder’s money upon 
her as if it was wather. 

“ But, onfortunately that could not go on for ever, and wan 
day I had to leave the widder for ever because of a writ that 
was out against me for debt, which she had not the money to 
discharge, bad cess to her ! I never see her agen.” 

“ Then what has she got to do with my affairs ? ” asked 
Barnabas. 

“ Nothun, darlint.” 

“ What on earth is the use of wasting time about her ? ” 

“ Don’t be s’ impatient, my boy. Sure it’s plasing to you to 
know that your father’s been a rale gentleman.” 

“ Let me know something of the matter that you told me 
was of importance.” 

u I’m comun to ut, Barney. Ye must know I had my roivals, 
and amongst ’em was a cap tun — a post captun in the navy. 
Captun Talbot, a man quite young, loike myself, but with no 
more knowledge of the wurld than a babe. He’d tuk to the 
sea as a boy and never left it except when he came home from 
a voyage, and so it was only raison able that he should be inno- 
cent and simple, and tender-hearted ; but he was about as 
strong as a lion, and just as ready to fight. 

“ Now, Patty was as foine an actress off the stage as she 
was upon ut, and when I towld her that the game was pleyed 
out and the bailiffs was after me, she made up at once to young 
Captun Talbot, and leavin’ me with a laugh at one side of the 
stage, went round to him at t’other with her eyes full of tears 
and a moighty touching story of her innocence and temptations, 
and the want of some lovun’ soul to shield her from the bitter 
hardships of her lonely life. I’ll tell you her motive, Barney 
— she expected you to come into the world before many months, 
and she wanted to find another father for you as could give you 
a home worthy of you, my boy: a name and a fortune, such as 
you deserved — do you take my mailing P ” 

“ I understand — go on.” 

“ Now, Captun Talbot was a widderer. He had married 
three years before ever he see Patty, and his wife died 


150 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


in giving birth to her first and only child — a son christened 
Thomas.” 

“ I know — well P ” 

“ The son grew strong and hearty, but the father bein' forced 
to go a-travelling about on the seas, was oblaiged to leave him to 
the tender mercies of a nuss. Patty saw the son, then two 
year old, and cried her eyes out over him, and the Captain, 
touched by her delicate performance, ast her if she would be a 
mother to his boy, and give up the stage and all her London 
friends to live in the country as his wife. Patty wanted 
nothun better, so she lifted up her face all streamun with tears 
and kissed him for a reply. The scane took place in her dress- 
ing-room, where the Captain had come wid a bit of a girl 
carrying the babe — come so suddintly that I had only just 
toime to slip behind a long hooped gownd that hung in a 
corner. 

“ Well, Barney, the next day I was nabbed by the bums and 
put into the Fleet for a debt of four hundert pounds. It was 
three years before I got out, and havun’ nothun’ in my pocket 
— and notliun’ in my stomach by the same token — my first 
thoughts were of Patty, and that day I walked to Sevenoaks 
with nought but wather and crusts to eat on the way, and at 
night I rang the bell at the gates of Talbot Hall. It naided all 
the parsevairance of my characther to obtain an interview. 
When I did I found Patty as white as a ghost, sittin’ wid you 
at her feet struggling to get at the cat with your silver rattle 
— y’ had a foine spirit on you even then, Barney, and your 
brother Gerard at her breast, whoile the Captain’s eldest son, 
Thomas, was sitting in a chair by your brother’s side. Patty 
rang the bell, and had Masther Tom taken away, ’case he was 
foive years old, and children’s moighty forrard talking about 
what’s not naided ; then she says, ‘ Mr. O’Crewe,’ she says, 
‘ what do you want?’ I towld her as I loved her sincairely, 
and begged her to pack up her jowels and fly wid me to a happy 
and blissful hoame. She refused p’int blank, and I shed tears 
at her ingratitude and infidelity. She said she had done 
wrong, but she would make reparation by living a good life, 
and being a dacent mother to her husband’s children. Though 
I loved her sincairely, I lost my temper, and I said, ‘Keep 
your husband’s children, but I’ll have mine,’ and with that I 
catched hold of you, my boy.’ ‘ Oh, my God,’ she cried, ‘ What 
are you going to do?’ ‘I am going to take my child away,’ 
says I, ‘ and if Captun Talbot asks for him, you can send him 
to me for an explanation.’ That brought your mother tc 
raison. ‘ How much money do you want to leave me in peace 


A RETROSPECT. 


151 


with my children ?' she asked. Well, my hoy, I tuk a few 
pounds and an iligant jewel she wore at her throat to go on 
wid, and I forgave her wid a free heart, and left her in pace, 
she implorin’ me not to come again, as every day she expected 
her husband to return. I promised, and made up my moind to 
kape my word, case I should ruin the game by playin’ reckless. 
But, onfortunately, I have, I must admit ut candidly, I have 
wan fault.” 

“Ah! drink.” 

“ No, Barney, that is not a fault. My fault is, that when 
I’m dronk I lose my sober senses. Well, when, after livin’ in 
a neighbouring tavern like a lord for a month, wan day I 
happened to be a little bit onder the influence of the blessed 
gift of natur’, I tuk ut into my head that I would go up to the 
Hall and get a few pounds. I rang the bell, and a man came 
from the porter’s lodge with his collar turned high up, for it 
was devilish rainy weather. I was almost bloind drunk, Barney, 
and when he asked me what I wanted, I was too busy holdin’ 
myself up by the gate-post to look at um much, so I said, ‘ 1 
want to see Patty — Mrs. Talbot,’ and I laughed.’ ‘ Do you 
know your way ? ’ he asked, with devilish cunning, and I, loike 
a poor, simple, guileless soul, answered, ‘ To be sure I do ; I 
only wish I had as many silver shilluns as I knew my way.’ 
He opened the gate for me, and in I staggered, like a blessed 
lamb into the shambles. I rowled up to the house, and goun 
in by the sarvints’ entrance, as was natral to me, I tumbled up 
the stairs, and bust into the room where Patty was sittun. 
‘ Great Heavens ! ’ cries Patty, ‘ leave the house at once, my 
husband has sent me a message tellun as his ship’s in port, and 
he will be wid me this night.’ I nodded and says, ‘ 1 met the 
messenger at the lodge, and a decent sort of a crater he seems. 
Give me some money, and I’ll go away at once.’ She guv me 
a purse, but I happened to ketch the sparkle of an iligant 
ring on her finger, and the divil was in me to have that too. 
‘Darlint,’ I says, ‘ye’ll give me the jowil that twinkles 
broight as your beautiful eyes on your finger.’ ‘ No,’ says she ; 
* he guv ut me, and he’ll want to know what’s gone of it ; ye 
shan’t have ut,’ she says. ‘ As you like,’ says I, ‘ but if I. can’t 
have the ring, I’ll have my own flesh and blood. I’ll have my 
dear, swate little Thaophilus to bagin wid,’ and I ketched hold 
of you, for Thaophilus was the name she’d guv you, my boy ; 
but you worr a moighty onamiable chyild, and ye began to 
scrame thunder and biazes, when the door opened and in 
came the man in the loag coat as ud opened the gate to 
me ‘ Marciful powers ! framed Patty, dropping down on 


152 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


the flure, ‘ my husband ! ’ He’d followed me and heard all my 
indiscretion.” 

“ Confound you, for a drunken old fool ! ’Tis you, then, 
that ruined me ! ” cried Barnabas, jumping up from the bedside 
and stamping his foot. 

“ Don’t be cross wid your own old father, Barney. Listen, 
darlint, and your heart will melt wid pity for me, like a roll of 
buther under the gentle infiuince of the blessed sun . . . 

Widout a word of koindness the Captun screwed his knuckles 
into the nape of my neck, and as 1 drop’d you, implorun him 
to be marciful, he lifted me out of the room, marched me down 
the droive, and bundled me into the porter’s lodge, guvun a 
word or two to the porter. I thought he maned laving me 
there and sendin’ for a constable to take me off to the stocks 
for a rogue and a vagabind, and I thanked the merciful saints 
for protectun me in the morment of adversity ; but I was mis- 
taken, Barney, and presently recaived a warnun that I shan’t 
forget till my last hour, never to thank the saints before y’are 
certain sure they have done somethun to be thankful for, for 
sure they’ll cliate you if they can. Whoile the porter was 
absent the Captun took off his coat, and when the porter came 
back agen he’d a length of rope in his hand, a rope, Barney, 
darlint, not very thick, but as hard as nails. The Captun he 
doubles the rope, puts a knot in each end, and twisted the 
doubled length round his hand, leavun the two ends about 
two feet long. ‘ Captun, darlint,’ I says, ‘ what are you go n to 
do wid the rope ? ’ He didn’t, condescend to give me a worrd 
in reply, but he tuk me by the collar agen, holden me just so 
that I couldn’t move no more than if I was in a pillory, and 
with that awful insthrument of torture he bate me, and he bate 
me till my coat and breeches was in rags, and I swowned right 
off wid agony and suffering, ’twas no sham swownd, for he 
bate me till I couldn’t holler, and when I racovered I was lyun 
in a ditch. Barney, darlint, I’ve the marks of that bating on 
my body now.” 

“ I’m glad of if ; serves you right ! ” 

“ Y’are an onuatural choild. Where’s the Irish blood I guv 
you ? ” 

“ Finish your story.” 

“ Won’t you guy me a drop of rum, darlint? Talkin’ with 
a dry mouth is moighty difficult.” 

“ You shall have a noggin when you come to the end of the 
tale.” 

“ I’ll be as spadev as possible. You may rest aisey that I 
didn’t go back to Talbe + Hall in a hurry after the infliction of 


A RETROSPECT. 


153 


that thremenjous hating. I didn’t go anigh the place for three 
months, and only then beca’se I was druv to it by extrame 
necessity. I had nothing in the world at all, Barney, darlint, 
but the tatters of my garmints and the scars on my back, and 
when I approached the Hall it was with a thremblin’ in every 
blessed limb of my body and my taeth likewoise, and then I 
didn’t go nearer than the tavern, where only a short toime be- 
fore I had been a livin’ like a prince. Wad ye believe it, they 
wouldn’t sarve me with a paltry mug of ale ? Instead of giv- 
ing me comfort, they added to my misery by telling me that 
the Hall was empty — that Captun Talbot had took his wife 
and the cliilder away no one knew where. In hither disappoint- 
ment I retarned to London with all my tendher feeluns, and 
the yearnin’s of my soul ongratified. Three months more 
passed before by a marciful Providence I was brought face to 
face wid my darlint Patty. At forst she would have nothun 
to say to me; but I parsevered, Barney — I followed her till I 
found out where she lived, and then I brought the swate cratur 
to raison by threat enen to take my dear Barney aw r ay from 
her; for I knew a dacent chimney-sweeper who was willun to 
purchase the likes of you for a thrifle to educate to the pra- 
fession of climbing chimnies. Then she towld me that I had 
ruined her. Her husband — they’d made an admiral of um, and 
sure if he bate his counthry’s enemies as he bate his own he 
desarved the promotion — had taken his eldest son, Tom, that 
he had by his first wife away, and given her an annual income 
of four hunthred pounds a yaar, conditionally that she aban- 
doned his name and rachristened your brother and you, and 
niver attempted to see him agen. He disowned you, which 
was not to be wondered at considering what had tuk place, but 
he likewoise disowned Gerard ; for you see nothun Patty could 
say would make um believe that she had been true to him since 
her marriage. He had proofs that I visited the Ilall, and I 
myself had unfortunately towld um that I knew the way par- 
fictly well. He said that if you were my son, Gerard was 
moine also ; though he was not, as the holy saints knows full 
well for the truth, seein’ I was in the Fleet for nigh tw r o year 
before ever he saw the light of day. The money was paid to 
your mother, as ’tis paid to you, through Docthor Blandly. 
He was a young man then, and as handy with the use of a 
rope’s-end as his friend the Admiral, so I had to be careful and 
kape clear of um. But still I managed to live tolerable aisey 
wid what I could get, which was a decent percintage on all 
your blessed mother had ; and I had larnt to be continted with 
thrifles, I could have gone on livin’ in the same manner all 


154 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


the rest of my days, and died a peaceful old gentleman ; hut 
fortune was cruel against me. Ye caught the small-pox, 
Barney, darlint ; but y’are my own son, and I will not reproach 
ye — ye caught the small-pox bad, and for fear I might take the 
disase and add to the throubles of your mother, I tuk what 
there was in the house and left it to jine a swateheart of mine 
who was tliravelling round the counthry wid a company of. 
players. I was always moighty fond of the theater. When 
j . come hack I found your mother had tuk the small-pox in 
nussen you, and died of ut just as you recovered. ’Twas an 
inspiration that warned me to lave the house when I did, and 
ye see plainly, darlint, how the blessed saints watched over and 
protected us. Docthor Blandly, I was towld, by the same 
token, had removed you and your half-brother Gerard; and 
there was not a rap left for me. I have never seen Gerard since, 
nor you till this blessed morn, and havin’ finished the history 
so far as consarns you, if you’ve no abjaction we’ll take the 
noggun of rum you were spakun about.” 

“ Give you a noggin ! — what for? Do I owe you anything 
hut a curse for having ruined me by your meddling and inter- 
fering with my mother after she was married ? ” 

The old man looked at his son without the slightest malice. 
A smile stole over his face, and his eyes twinkled with a know- 
ledge of his own superior cunning. 

“ Y’ave a swate sperit on you, Barney, darlint ; but y’are a 
fool. Y’are loike an innocent pig that’s dying to get at the 
meal, but hasn’t the sense to ontie the string and crawl into 
the sack.” 

“ Then what do you suggest ? ” 

“ I am that dry wid telling ye the truth that I couldn’t 
spake another word widout a taste of the blessed gift o’ 
natur.” 

Barnabas puzzled his dull brains in trying to see what ad- 
vantage could be derived from his recently acquired knowledge, 
and then reluctantly handed the pence to his father with a 
feeble hope that he might receive value for the money. 

After a brief interval the old pedlar returned from his expe- 
dition to the bar-parlour, with a measure of rum, which the 
two drank, and then seeming greatly refreshed, he wiped his 
lips with the back of his hand briskly, and said : 

“ Now, Barney, where’s your brother Gerard ? ” 

“ In London.” 

“ In London, and can you tell me where now ? ” 

“ No,” replied Barnabas with emphasis, detecting his father^* 
eagerness to know. 


A RETROSPECT. 


155 


u ’Tis a pity. London’s a large place ; but faith we’ll foind 
urn if he’s to be found.” 

u And what then ? ” 

“ We’ll make a bargain wid um before ever we tell um a 
word.” 

“ Supposing he won’t come to terms, and that is more than 
likely.” 

“ Then we’ll just do widout him. We’ll foind Mr. Talbot, 
and you’ll go to him wid a nice clean face, and say, ‘ Tom, I’m 
your brother, and my heart’s a yearnin’ towards ye, and I most 
live wid ye or die,’ and if Docthor Blandly says y’are not, ye’ll 
just quoiet and aisey speaking ask him to prove that you’re 
not.” 

Barnabas took some time to comprehend the full meaning of 
the hint, then : 

“ And suppose he does prove it P * 

“ He can’t. The Admiral was ashamed of what had tuk 
place — Patty towld me so, and said as how it was a blot upon 
the fair history of the family — and for that reason he never 
whispered a word of it to a sowl except Docthor Blandly. The 
Admiral’s dead, and what proof agen you is the word of the 
ould Docthor, who maybe for his own reasons is intherested in 
keeping you out of the family P There y’are by law his son 
and Thomas Talbot’s brother.” 

Barnabas slapped his thigh, and grinned ; his father, encour- 
aged by this flattering mark of appreciation, proceeded : 

“ He can’t deny ye. Ye stand there Thaophilus Talbot. He 
dare not forbid ye to enter your father’s house, and when y’are 
wance inside, my boy, ye may puzzle the devil and Docthor 
Blandly together to get ye out.” 

11 But suppose,” Barnabas urged, biting his nail at the same 
time, u suppose he does forbid me to enter the house, and uses 
the same kind of argument his father used with you, how will 
that be.” 

“ Bad for you, darlint. But y’have nothun of the koind to 
fear. Doubting the thing he’s towld for true, he daren’C lift 
his hand agen you, with the possibility of disgracin’ his father’s 
son. And look here now, agen, supposun and supposun all 
you like, y’have still the masther hand of him. If he says ye 
shan't cross the threshold of Talbot Hall, nor ye shan’t have a 
farden of his money, you’ll say, ‘Brother Tom, yer cruelty 
will force me to take to the road, and if I’m caught, it’s Thao- 
philus Talbot will be tried, and you’ll have the satisfaction of 
quarthering Tyburn-tree upon your scutcheon.’ ” 

Barnabas nodded assent. 


156 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


“For bis father’s sake, for the honour of his fam’ly, he daren’t 
let the sacret be made public, wid no better result than saving 1 
a few pound i. No, my boy, ye’ll set your fut in Talbot Hall, 
and yell net er lave ut, and it’s the foine feastun and drinkun 
we’ll have there.” 

“ We ! What have you got to do with it ? ” 

“ Sure, darlint, yo’ won’t kick away the poor old ladder that’s 
helped ye to mount up to the top of your fortune.” 

“ Won’t I ! we shall see.” Barnabas laughed, and then con- 
fident in his ability to do in future without his father, added, 
“You shouldn’t have told me so much without first providing 
for yourself.” 

“Faith, and I’ve done the same, darlint,” murmured the old 
man, with a most oily suavity in his tone. 

Barnabas ceased to laugh. 

“ What do you mean P ” he asked. 

“Ye can’t do widout me, darlint, seein’ that I would claim 
ye for my own son if ye could demane yourself to forget me. 
I’m full of tender feeluns for you, and I’ll never laave ye 
whoile y’are tender and true to me. Couldn’t I have per- 
suaded your poor ignorant sarvint to run away wid me and 
turn King’s evidence, and sowld ye to the constables whoile ye 
was slapeing so swately in your bed ? Couldn’t I go now to 
Docthor Blandly, and promise for a thrifle to go agen ye in a 
court of law, if ye made yourself onplaisant ? And wouldn’t 
I if I wasn’t wise enough to howld on to my own blessed 
son while he kapes up his characther dacently ? ” 

“ You’ve got the cunning of old N ick,” growled Barnabas. 

“ Thank ye, darlint, for the compliment; the same to you.* 


CHAPTER XXXin. 

PREMEDITATION, 

“ There’s your change, and there’s your sturrups,” said the 
landlord of the “ Lone Crow,” when Barnabas, after breakfast, 
signified his intention of departing. “ Fair and square, and 
two ha’peneys for a penny’s my motter, and no hitting below 
the belt.” 

At a sign from his master, Slink took the stirrups, and went 
away to saddle the horses, and soon after returned with them 
to the back-door of the inn, where Barnabas stood beside the 
pedlar, who was taking with his customary volubility, but in 
a subdu )d tone. 


PREMEDITATION. 


157 


Slink was mystified and apprehensive. As yet his master 
had not spoken a word, good or bad, to him, hut that did not 
lessen the dread aroused by his finding him on intimate terms 
of friendship with the pedlar who had betrayed him into a 
confession. 

While Barnabas was putting his pistols in their holsters, the 
pedlar, who had caught a menacing glance from Slink, came 
to his side and said in a low voice : 

“ I’ve been spakin’ a good word wid the masther for ye, my 
boy. Ye’ll foind that he’ll trate ye wid more considtheration 
in futur’.” 

Slink’s gratitude was expressed in a rapid nod, a smile, a 
wink, and a grip of the hand extended to him ; then he fol- 
lowed his master’s example and sprang in the saddle. 

“God bless ye, Barney, darlint,” said the wily old man, 
going to the side of Barnabas. “ ’ Tis a moighty foine figure 
ye cut astride of your horse, and I’m proud of ye. Ye’ll kape 
an eye on the boy behint ye. Trost no man but your owld 
father, that loves ye so dareiy. In three weeks’ toime ye’ll mate 
me here agen and tell me true how ye prosper. Ye know what 
to do in the manewhoile, and ye ondersthand that ye kin do 
nothun widout me. Farewell, my darlint, and ’tis a chareful 
time we’ll have at the old hall of your ancisthers.” 

Barney nodded, and touched his horse’s side with his heel. 
The Walloper had contrived to open his gate, and launched a 
final motto as his guests passed out. 

“Always glad to meet you, Captain, within the rules. 
Fair give and take, and part friends — there you are.” 

Without responding to this honest sentiment, Barnabas 
jerked the rein, and taking the London road, trotted along in 
sombre meditation. 

When they had gone some distance, he smacked his boot with 
his whip, and at the signal Slink came to his side. 

“"You can’t learn to hold your tongue, it seems,” said 
Barnabas. 

“ What have I said, master ? ” 

“ Enough to hang you. If the pedlar hadn’t been a parti- 
cular friend of mine you would have been in gaol by this time. 
You thought you could sell me, didn’t you P Don’t tell a lie, 
you would. But I shouldn’t swing • it was you who stole this 
horse, and sold it to me for the one you are on. You may be 
thankful for your escape. I’m too kind to you, that’s the fact. 
You will sleep in the same room with me in future.” 

“I wish I had never been born !” whimpered Slink, “my 
life’s a misery to me. Here, master, take my horse, and every- 


158 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


thing I have, and let me go free as I was the day you met me 
first.” 

“ Oh, no, I’ve not done with you yet. Look here,” tapping 
a holster, “ if you attempt to leave me, you know what will 
happen.” 

This threat, which at one time had made Slink tremble with 
fear, seemed to make but little impression on him now : it had 
been repeated often, and his fear of death was diminished 
greatly by the wretchedness of living. 

“ Its all for your own good,” continued Barnabas ; “ haven’t 
I made a man of you ? At one time you used to blubber like 
a big girl at the sight of a pistol, and feared every man you came 
near for a constable ; no wonder your sweetheart would have 
nothing to say to you. A woman wants a man for her husband, 
and I’ll warrant when you go to your wench with a dare-devil 
look on your face, she’ll be civiler to you than ever she’s been 
before.” 

“ Do you think so, master ? ” 

“ Of course I do. Besides, I shall put a lot of money into 
your pocket before long, and what maid would say no to you 
then ? You do all I bid you, and before a month’s out you’ll 
be as rich as a lord and as free as the wind.” 

" Does your honour mean it ? ” 

" I’ll take my oath on it. But mind — you must do whatever 
you’re told to do without hesitation — and you must help me.” 

“ You don’t want me to — to ” 

“No, I don’t. The work I’ve got for you is as innocent as 
singing hymns.” 

“ Your honour won’t find me backward at doing anything of 
that sort ; I’m wonderful fond of singing. Master Twist, the 
music-man, told parson I’d the best voice in the parish, so 
parson said, * Let’s have ’n in the choir, for the music hasn’t 
pleased me for a long while.’ So Master Twist, he put I in 
the choir, and Monday morning he ax’d parson whether lie’s 
zatisfied. ‘ No,’ says the parson, ‘ ’t ain’t right now; but 
I’ve found out what’s the matter — there’s too much music ; 
take away, the big fiddle.’ So Master Twist took the big fiddle 
away, and nex’ Monday he ax’d parson agen if he wurr zatisfied. 
‘ No,’ says parson, ‘there’s too much now ; you must take half 
they b’ys away.’ So Master Twist took six of the b’ys away, 
and nex’ Monday morning he ax’d parson if he wurr zatisfied 
now. * No/ says parson ; * it’s the gals that makes the noise — 
take them away.’ So Master Twist took the gals away, and 
nex’ Monday morning he ax’d if he wurr zatisfied. ‘ No/ says 
parson, 4 there’s too many b’ys.’ So Master Twist took all the 


PREMEDITATION. 


159 


other b’ys away, and there was only me and him with the flute 
left, and nex’ Monday morning- he ax’d parson if he wurr 
zatisfied, just the same as before. ‘It's better,’ says parson, 
* and it would be better still if the choir was up in the belfry.’ ” 

“ Have you done P ” asked Barnabas. 

Slink looked at his master’s scowling face, and conscious 
of the indiscretion into which he had been led by that first 
faint glimpse of amiability on the part of his master, blushed 
up to the eyes and nodded his head. 

“ In that case you can hold your noise until you’re asked to 
speak again.” 

Slink smothered a sigh and dropped in the rear, with his 
head bent in conscious disgrace. 

Left to his own reflections, Barnabas turned over in his mind 
all that he had heard from his father, and the suggestions he 
had made, which were pleasant, as offering the prospect of 
gain to himself, but unpalateable in other respects. The 
greedy, dull scoundrel wanted all for himself, and was unwill- 
ing that anyone should share with him the ill-gotten profit. 

“What has my father done that he should have a penny 
from Talbot ? ” his thoughts ran. “ He has done me an injury 
in reducing me to my present position by his drunken folly. 
I’m not the blind fool he takes me to be. I see clearly enough 
that he would have me under his thumb, as he had my mother, 
if I gave him the chance. By threatening to blow on me he 
would extort all that I get, and likely enough in another 
drunken fit he would blab the truth, and ruin me as he ruined 
my mother. Then what would happen ? 

“ I should be kicked out and the payment made by Doctor 
Blandly stopped as a reward for my pains. I won’t trust my 
father if I can help it; but how can I do without him, or in 
opposition to him. He has only to show himself to the Doctor 
and tell him all to upset me. To spite me and get a bottle of 
rum he would do anything. . . . 

“ He says that my birth was concealed for a couple of months 
before it was registered in the parish books, in order to avoid 
Admiral Talbot’s suspicions. That registry would establish my 
claims against all that Doctor Blandly could say ; but suppose 
the Admiral, to conceal what he called his disgrace, had the 
passage scratched out. No, he couldn’t do that. I suppose I 
could see the register and make sure. But that would be 
nothing if Doctor Blandly and my father combined to undo me. 
I may have to buy him over to my side after all. 

“But then Gerard will have an equal right, curse him. 
That makes three of us to divide what Talbot chooses to allow 


160 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


us, which may be little enough after all. Board and lodging, 
perhaps, and no more. A fine treat that. I can make no legal 
claim upon this Talbot, and if he doesn’t like my ways he may 
just start me off about my business, and I should have no 
redress. If the Admiral made a will and left the property to 
his son Thomas, it’s his, and no one can take it from him. At 
the best I shall be dependent on his generosity, and have to 
truckle and bend before him like a servant, while Gerard, with 
his dainty face and white hands, and ‘ haw, haw ’ here, and ‘ ha 
ha’ there, will be his favourite, and get all the good that is to 
be got. A fine piece of justice truly, when I shall have to 
manage father and supply him with what he demands. Yes, 
Gerard will take the cream, while I must share the whey with 
the old man. The dirty work and no reward worth having ! 
Plague take me, a fine bargain that is ! Better to put up with a 
couple of hundred a year and be free; I shall have the satisfac- 
tion of knowing that Gerard gets no more, and disappoint the 
old man with all his cunning. . . . 

11 But I can’t let the prize lie there and not make a grab for 
it. There’s a way to get it if one only knew how. I’ll be 
bound my father could put me up to the means if it were not 
to his own disadvantage. There must be some way of doing 
it. One needn’t cut down an apple tree to get at the fruit. 
How can it be done. If I had only my father’s brains instead 
of his blood I’d be better contented. Jf I found Mr. Talbot, 
and feigned to be prodigiously honest, told him all and threw 
myself upon his generosity, I should be likely to get more than 
by my fathers scheme, besides shutting him out from any 
advantage. But then Gerard would come in and get ten times 
as much as I should. I don’t like that scheme. It doesn’t 
release me from the dependency upon Talbot. . . . 

“ I wonder where he is. The other end of the world perhaps 
— dead for all I know. How would that be if he were •” 

He reined in his horse suddenly for no obvious reason, and 
halted in the middle of the road. 

“ Do you want me, master P ” asked Slink, coming to his side. 

“No, and be hanged to you. Keep behind,” answered 
Barnabas, touching his horse angrily, and then curbing it up 
with savage ferocity to a walking pace. 

He continued the journey for some time at that pace, while 
he considered what his position might be if Tom Talbot were 
dead. 


BOUSING THE LION. 


161 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

BOUSING THE LION. 

It -was the 25th of June, and the object of Barnabas Crewe’s 
present journey to Edmonton was, as may be imagined, to 
receive the quarterly allowance from Doctor Blandly. He put 
himself upon his best behaviour, and took the fifty pounds in 
agreeable silence, and without testing the quality of each piece 
by the process of ringing on the table or biting between his 
teeth, as had hitherto been his custom. When he rejoined 
Slink at “ The Bell,” he called for a modest quart of ale, and 
shared it fairly with his servant, which was an exceptional 
act of generosity, and a wholesome departure from his usual 
habit of debauching himself by the speediest means to be 
procured. After paying for the ale he counted his money, and 
buttoned it up carefully in his pocket as he left the inn. 

“ Slink,” said he, when they were once more on the road, 
“ which road do you know to Sevenoaks ? ” 

Slink looked at his master in open-mouthed astonishment. 

“ Well, fool P ” asked Barnabas. 

“I don’t know my way from London, master.” 

“ Where do you know your way from, then ? ” 

“ From Maidstone, or Chizzlehurst, or Bromley.” 

“ Do you know your way from Gravesend ? ” 

“Yes, by Wrotham and Ightham.” 

“Wrotham I know; where’s Ightham?” 

“ A few miles furder on, and about seven from Sevenoaks.” 

“ Savage kind of place thereabouts, isn’t it?” 

“ A village, your honour ; not very savage, two inns.” 

“ Any houses between there and Sevenoaks ? ” 

“ A few, not many, master. There’s Knole Park.” 

“ Ah, Knole ; that lies between Ightham and Talbot Hall?” 

“ Yes, your honour.” 

“ Then now for Gravesend What are you blubbering 

about ? ” 

“You’re not going nigh Talbot Hall, are you, master?” 

“ Yes. Is there anything terrible in that ? ” 

“We shall be lost, that’s all. Hanged, nothing more. 
Master Blake, the steward, knows your horse as well as I do.” 

“ Hum ! that might get me into trouble. I must manage to 
exchange him on the road.” 

“ But Master Blake knows me just as well as the horse.” 

u Then you’ll have to keep a smart look-out. Fall back.” 

11 


162 


LIEUTENANT BAKNABAS. 


They had passed Dartford before Barnabas made any sign of 
wishing to renew the conversation, then he made the usual 
signal, and Slink came to his side, touching his hat, but looking 
straight before him with heavy eyes and a woebegone 
expression on his face. Barnabas, after looking at him for a 
minute in mute disgust, said : 

“ What a blameful, hang-dog looking hound you are.” 

“ I can’t help it, master.” 

“Sit straight in your saddle, hold your head up, now look 
as if your life depended on your pluck, fancy you have Tyburn 
in front of you, and a batch of snap-jacks at your heels.” 

Slink turned sharply and looked behind him, with a falling 
lip and chattering teeth. 

“ Bah ! you make a man ill to look at you ! ” 

Barnabas gave a cut at Slink’s horse with his whip, causing 
the animal to make such a bound as nearly unseated the rider. 
Slink had no fear of horses, and showed considerable spirit in 
subduing the restive beast. 

“ Ah ! now you look like a man. I hate your sneaking, 
snivelling faces, and so do women. When we come upon a 
barber’s you’ll have that shock of hair trimmed up smart, and 
if there’s e’er a haberdasher’s in Gravesend you’ll buy yourself 
a pair of riding-gloves and a jaunty cravat ; I suppose you 
ought to have a new pair of boots. Well, there’s a piece of 
gold for you, and to-morrow morning let me see you as spruce 
as a carrot, with your hat cocked on your ear, your chin up, a 
flower-bud or a straw in your mouth, and a devil-may-care 
carriage. D’ye hear?” 

“ Better tell me again, master,” said Slink, not sure whether 
he had heard correctly. 

Barnabas repeated his instructions, and Slink, with un- 
dimiuished amazement, asked : 

“ What’s all that for, master? ” 

“ I want you to see that sweetheart of yours, and what is 
more, I want her to see you.” 

“ But, your honour, if ” 

“ Speak when you’re told to speak. To-morrow we shall 
push on to the village you spoke of ; there I shall stop while 
you go on to Talbot Hall. Curse that face ! look the other 
way, if you can’t show me a better. You’ll go to Talbot Hall 
— a-foot if you like — and hang about until you have a chance 
of seeing your sweetheart alone. Then you’ll put on the air of 
a man, and 1 warrant she’ll listen to you. You shall buy her 
a shawl or brooch at Gravesend and give it to her, and while 
you’re making love you’ll just find out in what part of the 


SWEETHEARTS. 


163 


world Mr. Talbot is travelling-, and you won’t leave her until, 
by fair means or foul, you’ve found out. Don’t face her with 
a blush and a sickening simper ; stick out your lip, strut up to 
her like a cockerel, chuck her under the chin, and laugh at her 
if she puts on her fine airs. I wager a crown to a penny she’ll 
part from you with a sigh, and never rest till she sees you 
again.” 

Slink’s face expanded into a broad grin of satisfaction ; and 
as his imagination dwelt upon the part he was to play, he gave 
his hat a shake, tilting it on one side, stuck out his chin and 
his nether lip, and assumed a rakish air, which was ludicrous 
enough in conjunction with his soiled and tattered neck-cloth 
and his red hair, which stuck out in a fluffy thicket three parts 
round his head. 

u That’s it,” said Barnabas, encouragingly, “ look like that 
and you’ll carry the heart of any woman, when you’re trimmed 
up a bit. You don’t lack courage ! ” 

“ Not I,” responded Slink, “ I’m bold enough, if I can only 
get the fears out of my head.” 

“ That’s the way, man ! To-morrow you won’t be the same 
fellow your sweetheart sent about his business.” 

“ You’re right, master. I’ve been thinking over what you 
said yesterday, and I made up my mind to be more of a man 
next time I face Jenny. She shall see what sort of a lover she 
has to deal with now, if I can only catch her alone. I shan’t 
be afraid if I can go on foot, because I needn’t stick to the roads 
when I see anyone coming, and can skip off behind a hedge if I 
hear a sound. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

SWEETHEARTS. 

Primed with instructions, Slink left his master at Ighthara, 
and took the road to Sevenoaks in high spirits. He had carried 
out his master’s instructions to the letter, and with a clean face, 
a new neck-cloth, a pair of sound boots, well brushed coat and 
breeches, gloves, and a head reduced in its contour to natural 
proportions by a removal of the superfluous hair and a generous 
application of grease to the remainder, he looked as decent a 
young countryman as one would wish to see. In addition there 
was a certain rakishness in his air and carriage which was not 
usually to be seen in countrymen. His hat was cocked, a rose 
dangled from his lips, he flourished his riding-whip right and 

11-2 


164 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


left, and lie marched with a careless freedom, which proved that 
he, like other actors, felt himself for the moment to be thi 
character he was called upon to assume. 

This impudent exterior he maintained for at least a couple 
of miles, for the encouraging 1 flattery of Barnabas was fresh in 
his mind, his spirits were invigorated by the exercise of walking 
and the pleasure of escaping from his master’s society, and as 
yet he had not met a soul on the road. At Crown Point, how- 
ever, the sudden apparition of a yeoman with a cudgel in his 
hand recalled him to the dangers of his position, and caused 
him to plunge precipitately into the woods, albeit the yeoman 
was unknown to him, and five good miles of wild country lay 
between him and Talbot Hall. 

He took a widely circuitous route, and when he at length 
drew near the Hall, it was with the stealth of a fox and the 
timidity of a hare combined. It was only by thinking stren- 
uously of his master’s horse-pistols that he overcame the 
inclination to give up the perilous undertaking. Little by 
little he approached, and came within a hundred yards of the 
lodge gates. Peering through the brambles by the road-side 
he could see the gate, and the lodge with its bright mullioned 
windows and the white curtains tied with blue ribbon. He 
fancied he saw Jenny herself moving within the room. He 
heard the sound of wheels coming down the drive, and crouched 
closer, then the click of the gate latch, and bending forward, 
yet prepared to dash into the woods behind him if necessary, 
he faw Blake, the steward, in his light cart, come into the road 
and turn towards Sevenoaks. Slink recollected that it was 
market-day. 

As the cart drove off, a young woman stepped into the road 
and looked after it. She was a shapely young woman of twenty 
or thereabouts, with dark hair and eyes, and a complexion as 
brown as a berry ; had it been a few shades darker one would 
have thought her a gipsy, her eyes and teeth lacked nothing of 
the perfection of a gipsy’s. She wore a white cap and a print 
dress short enough to escape her heels when she walked, and 
show the neat turn of her ankles ; her sleeves were rolled up 
over her fine arms, which she stuck akimbo, resting her hands 
on her hips as she stood in the middle of the road, looking now 
to the left, now to the right. 

“ Jenny,” murmured Slink, with a sigh. He was too far 
away to see the expression of her face. It seemed to him that 

he must be thinking of him — that perhaps she was sighing for 
him to return to her — that she would listen to his entreaty it 
he went humbly to her side and asked for forgiveness now. 


SWEETHEARTS. 165 

Whom could she expect, whom could she he hoping to see in 
the road if not him ? 

She dropped her hands and took up the corner of her apron, 
looking pensively up the road, with her head a little inclined 
to one side. 

“ If she’s going to cry that settles it,” said Slink, taking his 
hat in his hand. 

But Jenny carried the corner of her apron no higher than 
her white teeth, and while Slink was still hesitating, in doubt 
whether to take the action as a sign of sentiment or indiffer- 
ence, her thoughtful mood gave place to another, and she 
returned with a brisk step to the lodge, singing a snatch of a 
lively song. 

“ Singing ! — a heartless baggage,” said Slink. “ And the 
very tune she knows I don’t like. Well, if that’s all she cares 
for me I won’t ask her to forgive me. I’ll just do as his honour 
bid me. She shall see that I can be as careless as she is. 1 am 
not the fool I was. I’ll warrant she’ll be less independent 
when she finds what sort of a man she has to deal with now. If 
she thinks I’m afraid she is mistaken. Master Blake won’t be 
back for two hours, and no one calls at the lodge on market- 
day.” 

With these thoughts Slink cocked his hat carefully, fished 
out the rose which he had put in his pocket for safety, and 
having stuck it between his teeth, and assured himself that he 
had forgotten nothing of the part he was to play, he made a 
step towards the road, then he stopped, coughed, scratched his 
ear, and looked nervously towards the lodge. 

Jenny had opened the window and was looking out. He 
determined to wait until she withdrew. He didn’t wish her to 
see him come out of the wood, and he didn’t wish to march up 
to the lodge under the fire of her eyes. He preferred coming 
upon her from behind, and takipg her unprepared. 

Jenny left the window to his regret ; the respite had just 
given his spark of courage time to die out, and he found it 
more difficult than ever to leave the safe shelter of the wood. 
But once more he fixed his mind on Barnabas and his pistols, 
and with desperate resolution made a step forward and 
emerged from his cover. Now he was fairly in the road and 
facing the lodge, retreat was impossible. He dared not look 
at the window, it was as much as lie could do to keep the stem 
of the rose between his teeth, his heart beat with suffocating 
force, his hands grew wet, and his knees shook under him as 
he advanced. 

“ Pistols, pistols, pistols,” he murmured as he drew near the 


166 


LIEUTENANT BAKNABAS. 


lodge. He heard the clatter of plates, and above it the voice 
of Jenny singing the song he objected to. The sounds 
strengthened him, and came just at the right moment, for 
he was close by the gates, and he concluded that if he were 
lucky he might find her in the kitchen, where the clat- 
tering of plates and dishes showed she was engaged. He 
passed the gate, lifted the latch of the door, and entered the 
lodge at the moment Jenny was comiugfrom the little adjoin- 
ing kitchen. 

Without a word or a moment’s hesitation he marched up to 
her, and before she could recognise his features, for he took 
care to present that side of his face over which his hat was 
cocked, he had chucked her under the chin. Jenny’s response 
was no less sudden and unexpected — with a swing of her right 
arm she fetched him such a slap on the face that the rose was 
shot out of his mouth, his hat flew to the other end of the room, 
and he with difficulty kept his feet, for the room appeared to 
spin round him, and a thousand windows danced before his eyes. 

“ Why, ’tis Toby 1 ” exclaimed Jenny, clapping her hands in 
astonishment. 

“ Slink, if you please,” he answered with dignity, as he 
smoothed his ruffled hair, and crossed the room to pick up his 
hat and his rose. 

“ Slink, if you choose,” retorted Jenny with asperity, check- 
ing the laughter that had risen to her lips. “ ’Tis a proper 
name for a man who can sneak away with his master’s horse, 
and without bidding good-bye to any one.” 

“ No one seemed to care whether I said good-bye or not, or 
what became of me ; and as for the horse, my master told me 
I had as much right to it as the coat on my back.” 

“ A pretty master, indeed. Father said you had fallen into 
the hands of a rogue.” 

“ He’s not more to blame than you, Jenny. It was you that 
drove me away — that made me so wretched. I didn’t know 
what I was doing, and I didn’t care, and if anything happens to 
me my blood will be upon your head.” 

“Oh, Toby.” 

“ Yes, it’s true enough, and you know it. The guilt rests 
upon you. You’re like the young woman in the printed ballad 
I gave you last Maidstone Fair, who led her sweetheart to rob 
and murder his uncle all for love, and if — if one day I’m 
hanged at Tyburn,” — he stopped to shudder — “you’ll read 
your own name in my dying- speech and confession, and ” 

“ Oh, don’t, Toby,” cried Jenny, struck with horror at the 
picture presented to her imagination. 


SWEETHEARTS. 


167 


" And that’s not all,” continued Slink, pursuing* the advan- 
tage he saw he had gained ; “ I shall walk, I know I shall. 
You’ll hear my chains rattle in the night, and see me passing 
along in my sheet, just like the ghost in Otford Churchyard.” 

Jenny covered her head with her apron, as if to shut out the 
horrible vision. 

“I’m a desperate, reckless man. Ah, if you only knew 
all!” 

“ You’re not a murderer, Toby, are you P” 

“ Not yet.” 

“ Nor a — a — thief ? ” 

“No ; but I won’t answer for what may happen. I’m going 
the road to ruin fast. I don’t go to bed at eight o’clock now. 
I gamble — I play cards night after night for money. I can’t 
sleep, and sometimes I sit up half the night drinking spirits 
and singing songs, and listening to stories that are not fit for 
girls. Look at me ! I’m not what I was — a simple, innocent 
countryman. Look at me ! ” 

Jenny removed her apron and looked at him timidly. His 
hat was again cocked, and the rose, somewhat the worse for 
rough usage, hung limp from the corner of his mouth. He 
stood with his legs astride, one hand on his hips, and a defiant 
expression on his face. 

“No, you’re not what you were,” Jenny said, shaking her 
head gravely ; and something in her tone suggested to Slink’s 
mind that she was not displeased with the change in his 
appearance. 

He paused a minute to consider how he was to pursue his 
victory, for a merely temporary victory is sometimes more 
fatal in its results than a repulse — then dropping his voice to a 
tender tone, he said : 

“ You haven’t altered, Jenny ; you’re just as pretty as ever.” 

“You’ve seen finer ladies than I am, 1 daresay,” said she, 
blushing. 

“ Oh, yes, hundreds — every day, but none that could make 
me forget you.” 

Jenny raised her eyes and smiled, making it difficult for 
Slink to keep up the line of attack which had gained him such 
an advantage. However, he overcame the temptation to be 
ingenuous and tender, and continued : 

“No, you have not altered at all; you’re pretty, but hearts 
less” 

“ Oh, Toby ! how can you say that ?” 

“ Is it not the truth P Have you lost a single pound since I 
have been away ? Look at your cheeks, and your arms as plump 


168 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


and 'beautiful as if you’d never had a day’s sorrow in your life. 
It was nothing to you that you had driven a faithful lover to 
ruin ! If I had been dead it would have been all the same to 
you, you would have still kept plump and pretty.” 

“ I can’t help it, Toby. I didn’t eat anything for a whole 
day after you went away, but the next morning my appetite 
was too strong for me. Still I have thought of you, I have.” 

“ Have you, Jenny ? ” 

“ Yes, nights and days, I have; and I’ve said prayers for 
you.” 

“ Real true, Jenny ? ” 

“ Yes, real true. I went out in the road this very afternoon, 
and thought to myself as I looked up the road , 1 Oh, if I could 
only see Toby coming along ! ’ ” 

“ But you were singing a song when I came in.” 

“ I was obliged to, to prevent myself crying.” 

“But it was 1 Jack Robinson,’ Jenny, and you know I never 
liked to hear you sing that.” 

“ How could I know what T was singing, when I was think- 
ing all the time of you ? ” Jenny put her apron to her eyes, 
and whimpering, continued: “’Tis you that are cruel and 
forgetful, or you would have come back to see whether 1 was 
in distress ; and if you loved me truly, for my sake you 
wouldn’t have done wrong, and gone seeing fine ladies, and 
gambling, and drinking, and singing songs that you wouldn’t 
like me to hear. And you might have known that I laughed 
at you only to teaze you ; a girl doesn’t teaze anyone that she 
dislikes. And then you were such a simple fellow, one was 
forced to laugh at you sometimes — not as you are now, with 
your smart gloves, and your hair cut like a gentleman’s. No, 
don’t take my hand, you’re a wicked man now. I daresay you 
thought, when you came in with your impudent manner and 
touched me under the chin, that you could take liberties with 
me now you’re a fine gentleman and I’m only a poor girl; but 
you’ve made a mistake. I will always be a good girl, and you 
may go. away and leave me, to die all alone and unhappy, and 
never sing or laugh again, and oh ! oh ! oh ! ” 

The sentence was finished in broken sobs and exclamations. 

“ Don’t cry, Jenny dear ; don’t ee, there’s a sweet girl. I’m 
not so very wicked.” 

“Oh, yes you are. You’ve been listening to fine ladies and 
forgetting me.” 

“ Forgetting you, Jenny ! Think of the risk I run in coming 
to you now. If your father caught me I should be hanged for 
that mistake about the horse.” 


-4 


SWEETHEARTS. 


169 


“ No, no, you wouldn’t. Father said he should let you off 
with a thrashing, for he knew you Lad done wrong only be- 
cause you were so silly as not to know better. But it’s fortu- 
nate you didn’t come lialf-an-hour ago.” 

“ Fortunate for your father, Jenny. I can defend myself, 
I’m not afraid. Not that I should like to injure a hair of his 
head, for he is your father. Oh, let him come, I’m not afraid.” 

“ He won’t return for two hours, he’s gone to market.” 

“ I know that — that is — but why should we talk of him P 
it is you that I have come to see.” 

“ Did you come on purpose P ” 

“Yes. I came to bring you this token. It should have 
been better, but I am poor ; for I am not lucky at cards.” 

“ Oh, what a sweet brooch ! and earrings too, to match, how 
lovely I .Coral hearts and silver arrows, how beautiful 1 But — 
but — I think I mustn’t take them.” 

“ Why not, Jenny ? ” 

“ I wouldn’t like to wear them if they weren’t — weren’t 
honestly come by.” 

“ Oh, they were bought and paid for honestly, I swear.” 

“ But if you won the money at gambling, or if the money 
was given you by — by the fine ladies •” 

Slink paused a minute, and then looking at Jenny, with the 
tears standing in his eyes, he held out his hand and said : 

“Give ’em me back, Jenny. You shan’t wear ’em, dear, 
for the money that bought ’em was given me b/ my master for 
the purpose, and the gift’s none of my own, and unworthy 
for you to wear. I won’t deceive you, Jenny ; I’ll win you by 
fair means or not at all.” He threw the trinkets on the 
ground, and crushed them under his feet in a fury. “ I will 
tell you the whole truth, and why I’m here, and all that I have 
done and suffered through my own first folly. I will conceal 
nothing. You ” 

At this moment Jenny’s hand was clapped upon his mouth, 
and she whispered hurriedly, 

“ Here is Mr. Talbot. Not a word, or you are lost. Quick 1 
into the kitchen, quick ! ” 

As may be imagined, Slink did not require pressing ; h'3 shot 
into the kitchen like a mouse before a cat. 


170 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


CHAPTER XXXVL 

ESCAPE. 

“ Give me a mug of ale, Jenny,” said Tom Talbot, entering tbe 
lodge. “ I am too idle to go up to tlie house, or the path is too 
long, one or the other. Ah, child, what is the matter with 
you P Your lips are almost white, and — surely you have been 
weeping ? ” 

“ No, Sir, nothing ails me. Maybe the mid-day heat tries 
me. I will get you the ale at once, Sir.” 

Jenny placed a chair for Tom Talbot quickly, and harried 
into the kitchen, closing the door behind her. 

“Jenny, love,” whispered Slink, “if it will save you from 
getting into trouble I will give myself up to the young master 
at once, though I hang for it.” 

Jenny shook her head, and gave him her hand while she 
stooped to draw the ale. He pressed it to his lips and turned 
his eyes to the door alternately. 

“ Say the word, and for your sake I’ll be brave,” he 
whispered, as she rose from the ground. 

She answered by a shake of the head, and with a smile of 
encouragement and a squeeze of the hand she left him. It was 
only womanly on her part to face a danger with gladness for a 
man in peril. * 

When she re-entered the room she found Tom Talbot seated, 
with a much crushed rose in one hand and the fragments of a 
brooch in the other, which he was looking at with curiosity. 

“What does this mean, Jenny ? ” he asked ; “here are the 
ruins of trinkets which could not have been so desperately 
crushed by accident.” 

Jenny set the mug on the table beside Tom, and said — 

“ No, Sir; ’twas not an accident.” 

“Weren’t they pretty enough for you, Jenny ? ” 

t{ Oh 1 they were lovely ; coral hearts with arrows through 
them — so sweet.” Jenny turned to the chimney, to dust the 
ornaments upon it, while Tom, looking at the fragments, said 
to himself : 

“ Even here one loves and suffers. Is there no comer in the 
world where one may live heart-whole and in peace ? ” The 
girl kept her back to him. 

“ Jenny, you who are so fond of ornaments — must have had 
a strong reason to make you break this offering — for they were 
an offering, I suppose ? ” 


ESCAPE. 171 

“ They were a token from my sweetheart, that is ” she 

paused. 

“ That is — from him who was your sweetheart. Your father 
has told me about that early love. They were a present from 
Toby Slink, I suppose ? ” 

“ Yes,” sighed Jenny. 

“You did right to crush them. You are worth a good 
husband, one a thousand times better than that sneaking 
thief. Crush the thoughts of him as you have crushed his 
gift, and open your heart to one of the decent lads in the town.” 

“Toby was not so bad as you think, Sir. I treated him 
most ill, that’s why he ran away.” 

“. And that is why he stole a horse at the same time, hey ? 
Don’t deceive yourself, Jenny, and above all, don’t let him 
deceive you. If I catch him hanging about here he shall 
repent his rashness.” 

“ You wouldn’t have him hanged, would you, Sir? ” 

“No, perhaps not. The penalty of the law is greater than 
the offence ; but I would certainly whip him within an inch of 
his life. I suppose he sent you these trifles by a friend ? ” 

“ He brought them himself.” 

“ Hum ! He has more courage than I should give such a 
fellow credit for. But perhaps he watched your fatiier out of 
sight, and did not know that I was about. When was he 
here ? ” 

“ A — a — a — he was here a quarter of an hour ago.” 

“ Only a quarter of an hour ? ” Tom cried, starting up. 

“What are you goingto do, Mr. Talbot, you won’t hurt him?” 

“ Jenny, my child, ’tis but too clear that you still care for 
this rascal, despite your better judgment. He has come once, 
he will come again, unless he has such a lesson as will stay in 
his memory. Your anxiety tells me that you still like him, 
and if I can see that, will not he ? and seeing your weakness, 
will he not take advantage of it to your life-long misery? I 
promise you I will not give him up to justice, but ” 

“ Mr. Talbot! Mr. Talbot ! what are you going to do ? ” 

“I am going up to the house for my hound and a whip, 
Jenny.” 

As Tom strode off to the Hall, Jenny opened the door and 
cried to Slink : 

“ Quick ! quick, Toby, out of the open window here. He 
cannot see you from the drive.” 

“I’ll go outside, Jenny, and wait for him. I will take my 
whipping without crying out, if I can, and show him that I’m 
not such a sneaking rascal as he takes me to be. I’d have 


172 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


come out while he was here, but for fear of putting' you to the 
blush, dear. Let him beat me.” 

“No, no. Toby, if you do really love me, save yourself. 
The woods are open, and you have a start. You can’t love me, 
Toby, or you wouldn’t linger.” 

“ You don’t believe all he has said against me? ” 

“No ; should I love you if I did ? ” 

u And you won’t open your heart to no decent lad as he was 
recommending ? ” 

“No. Don’t stay! Listen, Toby: I won't marry a man 
who's been thrashed! now will you save yourself ?” 

“ Give us a kiss, Jenny, to show we’re right down earnest 
and true.” 

She threw her arms round his neck and gave him a hearty 
kiss, lip to lip, and the next moment, invigorated and with a 
strength born of his new manhood, Slink scrambled through 
the window and dashed off into the woods. He had not a 
moment to spare, already he heard the hound welcoming his 
master’s approach to the stable. 


CHAPTER XXXVII, 

§ 

AN AFTERNOON’S WORK. 

The time hung heavily on Barnabas Crewe in Slink’s absence. 
Strolling into the meadow behind the inn in search of amuse- 
ment, he found there only a sleepy cat stretched in the sun, 
and a cow chewing the cud under a hedge. He threw the cat 
in the liorse-pond, and stoned the cow until he heard someone 
approaching, when he turned into the skittle-alley where three 
or four louts were playing. He sat down and watched the 
game in the hopes of finding some method of cheating, which 
would justify him in joining the players and compensate for his 
want of skill 5 failing to succeed in his endeavour, he left the 
alley in disgust, and seated himself with a pot and a pipe in 
the tap-room. 

There he drank, smoked, and dosed by turns, until he felt 
hungry enough to eat some bread and cheese. After that he 
dosed again, until the flies irritated him into activity ; then he 
went into the meadow to see if he could find the cat, or any- 
thing else that might afford him diversion. But the cat was 
now basking on the roof of a barn, and blinked at him with 
exasperating indifference, and the cow was browsing in a part 


AN AFTERNOON’S WORK, 


173 


of the field where she could not be stoned without the risk of 
observation, so with a curse he lounged into the stable where 
he stood with his hands in his pockets, looking at the horses 
for a time. 

Why should not he go up the road with the chance of meeting 
Slink ? He called the stable lad and ordered him to saddle 
the grey mare, which he had exchanged at Gravesend for the 
horse taken bjr Slink, and while his bidding was being done he 
fetched his pistols from the house and put them in their 
holsters. Then he mounted, and walked his horse up the hill 
that overlooks the weald, keeping his eyes on the wood before 
him. 

He was close to Crown Point, when Slink burst through the 
scrub by the woodside, and came running up to him breath- 
less. 

“ Run, your honour, run,” he gasped. “ He’s at my heels — 
he’s after me.” 

“ He — who P ” 
te Master Tummus.” 

“ Talbot?” 

“ Yes, run, for heaven’s sake, master, run.” 

“ Don’t be a fool, tell me what has happened. I shan’t stir 
till you do.” 

“I was along with Jenny when he passed the window. I 
hid in the kitchen, and while I was there he came into t’other 
room, and obliged Jenny to tell him 1 had been there, and as 
he went up to the Hall to find a whip and his hound, I escaped 
by the window. He’s following me now with the hound.” 
Barnabas smacked his hip with his whip and grinned. 

“ Shall I go on, master ? ” asked Slink. 

“ No. What do you fear ? ” 

“ The hound, your honour — and Master Tom.” 
u Afraid of a dog ! What’s the handle of your whip for; if 
Mr. Talbot tries to hit you, can’t you defend yourself ? ” 

•* No, your honour. I’ll do him no harm, nor his dog neither. 
I’ve made up my mind — if he catches me I’ll make a clean 
breast of it, and let him hang me or do what he will after.” 

u The deuce you will. Do you know that you might get me 
into trouble ? ” 

“ Can’t help that, master. You’d best let me get off while 
I can.” 

“ Wait — the hound will follow you to Ightham. That won’t 
do. We shall have a dozen constables at our heels before 
night. Do you mean what you said just now ? ” 

“ I do, and nothing else. Ah, you may do your worst with 


174 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


them,” he alluded to the pistols which Barnabas tapped signi- 
eantly, “ I’m reg’lar desperate.” 

“ What do you mean ? I’m trying my best to save you. 
Is there another inn nearer than Ightham ? ” 

“ Yes — at the foot of the hill — the 1 Sir Jeffrey Amhurst.’ ” 

“ Then we must go back on our footsteps.” 

“ But that’s straight towards danger — towards Master Tom 
and his dog.” 

“ So much the better. Go on in front, and when you catch 
sight of the inn stop. If you don’t go I’ll stop your tongue for 
ever.” 

Choosing the lesser evil, Slink turned and quickly ran up the 
hill, which, despite the opposition of Barnabas, he had been 
descending as he recounted what had happened, reached the 
cross-roads, and ran down the road towards Sevenoaks, until 
he came to a bend, whence he could see the “ Sir Jeffrey.” 

Barnabas, who had followed close on his heels, with his eye 
on the alert and his right hand in the opened holster, pulled up 
and dismounted. 

“ Jump up,” he cried, taking the pistol from its holster and 
slipping it into his capacious pocket. “ You don’t want twice 
telling for that. Now then, off you go to the inn at Ightham, 
and wait there for me. You’re safe. The scent’s broken.” 

Without a moment’s hesitation, Slink, who had sprung into 
the saddle, dug his heels into the grey mare’s sides, and using 
his whip without stint, galloped off in the direction of 
Ightham. 

Barnabas walked down to the “ Sir Jeffrey ” and waited. 

Half an hour later, Tom, following his hound, emerged from 
the wood at Crown Point. 

With his muzzle to the ground, the hound ran down the hill 
towards Ightham for a hundred yards, then stopped, diverged 
to the right, to the left, ran on for half a dozen yards, and 
returned whining to the spot from which he had diverged. 

“ Good dog, good Dido — follow up,” said Tom, patting her 
encouragingly. 

Dido licked his hand, cried, and with her muzzle down again 
ran off to the left, pushing through the unbroken brake. 

Tom waited in the road ; presently Dido came from the wood 
higher up, took up the old scent with a bark of satisfaction, and 
ran down to where Tom stood, then finding herself again at 
fault, she ran down the bank to the right, and after some 
minutes returned, and looking up, whimpered as if for assist- 
ance. 

“ He has feared to go on to the village, and doubled,” said 


AN AFTERNOON’S WORK. 


175 


Tom, as he retraced his steps towards the crest of the hill. 
Dido was again upon the scent, but instead of following it into 
the wood from which they had come, she ran along the road 
and descended the hill towards Sevenoaks, but within sight of 
the " Sir Jeffrey Amhurst ” she came to a stand, and appeared 
again at fault. This puzzled Tom. 

" He must have heard the dog and doubled to delay pursuit,” 
thought he, after some reflection. " A convincing proof that 
he’s no simpleton. ’Tis not unlikely that he got back in the 
wood, and was perched upon one of the trees we passed under. 
He shan’t have the gratification of seeing us go back, we will 
return by the road. Come, Dido,” he called to the hound, who 
was still searching for the lost scent, " come ; he has given us 
an afternoon’s amusement, and we will let him rest, and rest 
ourselves for a time.” 

He followed the road to the " Sir Jeffrey,” and sitting on the 
settle in the porch, called for ale. 

" Have you seen a young countryman pass here this after- 
noon ? ” he asked of the woman who served him. 

" No, master, nobody’s been nigh this afternoon save a gent, 
and he ain’t a countryman for certain ; he’s in the tap now.” 

To satisfy himself that the " gent ” was not Slink disguised, 
Tom walked into the tap-room, where he looked at Barnabas, 
who was feeding Dido with scraps from the bread and cheese 
before him. 

" Not much of the gent, and still less of the countryman in 
bis composition,” said Tom to himself. 

"Looking for a young countryman ?” asked Barnabas. 

u Yes — have you seen anyone looking as though he were 
pursued ? ” 

"No. That’s just what I’m looking for myself. I’ve a 
warrant in my pocket for a young fellow named Slink.” 

" The very man I’m after. He was my servant — my name 
is Talbot.” 

This is exactly what Barnabas wished to be certain about. 
He looked carefully at Tom, and then with a grunt said : 

" You’ll be lucky if you catch him. He’s a downy one, is 
Toby Slink.” 

Tom nodded and withdrew, whistling to his hound. But 
Dido found the bread and cheese seductive and lingered by 
Barnabas, whose appearance was less repulsive to her than to 
Tom. 

Tom rested awhile, then he paid for his ale and left the " Sir 
Jeffrey.” The sun was declining, and the great oaks threw an 
agreeable shade over the margin of turf by the roadside; the 


176 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


time and place induced meditation, and Tom walked onwards 
at a leisurely pace, with his hands crossed behind him, thinking 
no more of Slink, but, as may be imagined, of Lady Betty. 

“ After all,” he thought, “ why should she not laugh and be 
gay. If she valued my life at ail she would be pleased to hear 
that I had escaped from the duel. That she would learn from 
Gerard, who I warrant was not too modest to furnish all 
particulars. Perhaps those particulars excited her mirth. For 
a truth, I cut a mighty ridiculous figure, digging and plunging 
at an adversary who contented himself with parrying my 
thrusts, and who was too magnanimous to take advantage of 
my inferiority. ’Tis human weakness that serves as the food 
for mirth. The world sympathises with the fortunate, and 
laughs at the unlucky, from Quixote to the puppets in a Punch 
show, and the more the poor fools are beat the more the crowd 
laughs. One may laugh and not be heartless, those who are 
readiest to smile are readiest to weep. Had I fallen, Lady 
Betty would have shed a tear for me : I did not fall, and so she 
laughed. Why should I wish it otherwise ? Would I have 
her wretched rather than merry P It seems so, for I have done 
more to torment her in the last six months than to make her 
happy. Could I ever have made her happy ? It seems to me 
as I walk here in the sweet fresh air, with Nature’s unblemished 
handiwork on every side, that nothing is wanting to perfect 
my happiness, but one truly loving soul to share in these 
delights. She might feel as I do. But the summer goes, and 
we could not live for ever in seclusion. Perhaps for one day 
of happiness there might be a hundred of misery. What is 
worse than to be doubted P Nothing — unless it be — to doubt.” 

Dido came bustling through the brushwood to his side, and 
jumped up at his side as if in apology for her absence. Tom 
mechanically dropped his hand and caressed her, and while 
Dido, satisfied that her inconstancy was not resented, ran off 
again into the wood from which she had come, he replaced his 
hands behind him and continued his reflection. 

“It is odd that a man, with every inducement to succeed, 
cannot contrive to subdue his rebellious nature. But for my 
jealousy I might win the girl I love ; but a fool loving her with 
not a tithe of my affection, stands a better chance than I do. 
Will time alter my temper p and will she be free to woo when 
I may woo her well ? ” 

His thoughts were still in this dreary train, when they were 
suddenly arrested by a howl from the wood on his right hand. 
The howl was loud and long ; it was repeated again and again, 
Tom glanced rapidly to the right and left ; Dido was not in 


AN AFTERNOON'S WORE. 


177 


sight. He leapt across the ditch, and pushed his way tlirougn 
the brambles and short growth into the wood, and towards the 
spot whence the hound’s cries proceeded, now short and feeble. 

Beyond the oaks was a belt of pines free from under-growth, 
and it was here that Tom found his hound stretched upon the 
dry fir-spines. His first impression had been that Dido had set 
her foot in a trap laid for vermin, but a glance showed him that 
a more serious mischief had befallen her. 

“ Dido ! What is it ? poor old girl 1 ” he cried, dropping 
upon his knees by her side. 

At the sound of his voice the poor brute tried to get upon 
her feet, and fell back with a whine. Tom had a warm affec- 
tion for dogs, for this one especially. Dido had recognised him 
on his coming to the Hall, though she had not seen him for 
eighteen months. He passed his hand rapidly over her body 
and legs without finding any trace of a wound ; a drop of blood- 
stained saliva in the corner of her mouth was the only proof of 
injury as she lay. He essayed gently to raise her head ; she 
gave a sharp cry, and then, as he tenderly lowered her head 
again upon the ground, she licked his hand in forgiveness of the 
pain he had caused her. 

“ Poor loving, faithful bitch ! ” he murmured. 

She wagged her tail feebly in response, and whined as if 
complaining that she could do no more. He put his hand down 
to her muzzle ; she gave it a lick, opened her glassy eyes to 
look again upon her master, and then with a deep gasp closed 
them for ever. 

If love and fidelity qualifies a soul for immortality, it was 
but her unworthy body that ceased to live ; but the earthly link 
which had bound her to Tom was broken, and when lifting her 
head he discovered the under side all crushed and splintered by 
a murdering blow, he cried : 

“ My God ! this is too harsh ! Why am I robbed of this one 
poor friend ? ” And then, as he looked around him in a sudden 
access of passion. u Who is the coward that has done this 
thing ? ” 

As if in reply there came from the thickets behind him the 
report of a firearm, and a shot sung past, his ear. 

To revenge Dido Tom sprang to his feet and dashed into the 
thickets, over which the smoke yet hung in blue strata. He 
plunged forward, tearing his way through the impeding growth 
until he reached the road. Not a creature was in sight, not a 
sound reached his ears, for the rascal #ho succeeded in killing 
Dido and failed to murder Tom, had slipped into the pine wood, 
and was escaping rapidly over its free and noiseless carpet. 

12 


173 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


CHAPTER XXXVIH. 

BLAKE AND TOM’S CONCLUSIONS. 

After half-an-hour’s fruitless search, Tom gave up the pursuit, 
and in dull dejection made his way to Talbot Hall. An hour 
before he had scarcely noticed Dido’s caress, now, feeling her 
loss at every step, he wondered how he could have valued her 
so slightly. 

“ It is by loss that we learn to prize the trifles that contribute 
to our happiness, and not alone the trifles,” he said to himself. 
He was beginning to profit by the lesson. 

He found the steward in the lodge with his daughter. 

“ Come with me,” said Tom ; “ I want the light cart at once.” 

A short time afterwards Jenny heard the cart coming down 
the drive, and opening the gate, looked up with anxiety at Tom, 
who sat by her father’s side ; but she could learn nothing from 
the expression of his face. 

“ Anything happened unpleasant, Sir P ” asked Blake, break-* 
ing the silence when they were fairly on the road. 

“ My hound, Dido, has been killed.” 

“ Killed, sir?” 

Tom nodded; he was in no humour for talking. 

u Who killed her, Sir P if I may make so bold as to ask ? ” 

“ Slink,” Tom answered. 

The steward echoed the name, looking at his master incredu- 
lously ; but Tom had turned his face aside, and Blake saw that 
it would be unwise to question him further at present. 

Tom, by a sign, bade the steward pull up when they camo 
to that part of the road where he had been arrested by Dido’s 
cry, and led the way through the wood to the fir plantation. 

“ Poor bitch ! ” he said, looking down upon thelifeless hound 
who could never again greet him with joyful yelps, or answer 
to his call ; and then as Blake came up he turned away, his eyes 
filling with tears. 

The steward had less feeling for dogs, and proceeded to 
examine the wound. 

“ Dear heart o’ me 1 here’s been a blow to be sure ! She was 
a good hound too.” 

Tom walked slowly away to escape the commentary. 
Presently Blake came to his side, as he was leaning against the 
trunk of a fir, and said : 

“ You’ll excuse me, Sir, but did you see Slink kill the hound P” 

“No.” 


BLAKE AND TOM’S CONCLUSIONS. 


179 


u May I make so bold as to ask why you think he did it P ” 

“ I have been chasing him with the hound j a good reason for 
supposing that he killed her.” 

“ Take my word for it, Sir, ’tisn’t none of his work. He 
couldn’t do it.” 

“ Why not ? The same hand that took the hound’s life tried 
to take mine.” 

“ And you didn’t see him ? ” 

“ No ; he shot at me from the bush there. What does it 
matter wdio did it, the bitch is dead ? ” 

“ With all due respect, Sir, it matters a great deal. The man 
who fired at you is a murderer at heart, and God forbid we 
should lay a crime, even in our own minds, against any man 
without due cause. ’Tis not to be thought on carelessly, and 
the sin should be proved against the wicked in justice to the 
innocent.” 

“ You’re in the right, Blake. Tell me why you think Slink 
guiltless.” 

“ He loved that hound, Sir, as much as you did. She slept 
upon his feet o’ nights, and if she followed his scent this 
afternoon, as my Jenny tells me you took him for to do, ’twas 
as much love as instinct that made her trace his footsteps. 
There’s a hunch of bread under the dog’s side, she must have 
been eating the gift from his hand when he struck the blow, 
and do you think anyone with a heart inside him could do 
such a wicked, cruel thing as that P If you knew the lad, you 
couldn’t think him capable of such a deed, a poor, harmless 
critter, that couldn’t abear to see a pig killed ; and as for using 
guns, why, dear heart o’ me ! he would jump up like a crow if 
he heard one fired half a mile off. My Jenny’s told me all 
what happened after I’d gone to market. He’s got into bad 
hands, but his heart is decent and clean still. He was hid in 
the kitchen while you were in the parlour, and when you’d 
gone to fetch the hound he wanted to give himself up, take 
the thrashing you had promised him, and ask pardon afterwards 
like a man. But my girl, who can’t get over her fondness for 
the lad, despite his weak head, and who’s got a kind of whole- 
some Kentish pride in her, said she’d never marry a man wlio’d 
been thrashed, and so the lad took to his heels. Now, Sir, I 
put it to you, with all due respect, do you think a lad of that 
kidney could kill your hound and shoot at you ! ” 

“ I shall be heartily glad to find myself mistaken.” 

“ What motive could he have, when he wants to be forgiven 
and get a-courting of Jenny agin ? No, master, ’tain’t Slink, 
with all humbleness be it said.” 


12 — 2 


180 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


“ Then who can it he ? I have no enemy, at least, none who 
would descend to such an act.” 

“ It’s just likely to be nothing* else but a poacher, dogs is 
their nat’ral enemies ; his gun might have gone off as he was 
crawling through the bushes to escape.” 

“I heard the shot whistle past my ear the moment before 
the report.” 

“ Then we can settle whether it was a murderer or a poacher. 
Where did the shot come from ? ” 

“ That thicket. I was kneeling by the dog.” 

“ If it was a poacher he used small shot, and we shall find 
some in the firs,” said the steward, crossing to the trees be- 
yond where the dog lay. He examined two trees without 
making any discovery, at the third he pointed to the cut bark, 
and turning his head to Tom, said, with a melancholy shake of 
his head, “ ’Tain’t no poacher, master, ’tis a slug made that 
cut.” 

“ And what do you conclude from that P ” 

“ That you’ve got a wus enemy than poor Slink.” 

“ He won’t be content with one trial and failure, then. Let 
us get back to the Hall, Blake ; I’m sick of the business. As 
for Slink, I am willing to accept your view of him. Can you 
take the dog without my help r” 

“ Yes, Master Talbot.” 

The steward walked towards the dead hound with his eyes 
on the ground, and in deep perplexity. He was vain of his 
own perspicacity, and besides that, his master’s life and in- 
terests were dear to him. He stooped down and picked up 
something from the brown spine-covered earth. 

“ The villain tempted the hound with all manner,” said he, 
turning to Tom, who was walking apart ; “ here’s a bit o’ 
cheese.” 

Tom stopped, suddenly remembering the man he had seen at 
the “Sir Jeffrey” feeding Dido with scraps from the bread and 
cheese before him. 

“ What is it, Sir ? Have you got ever a clue ? ” 

Tom explained to Blake what was in his thoughts. 

“ If you’ve no objections, Sir, we will run up to the 1 Sir 
Jeffrey/ the woman will know her own cheese again, and be 
able to tell us what became of the man.” 

Tom agreed to the proposal, and when Blake had laid the 
dog in the cart, they drove to the “Sir Jeffrey Amhurst” and 
made inquiries. The hostess proved to Tom that the cheese 
was identical with that she had served to Barnabas, and said 
that he had left a few minutes after Tom, apparently in haste, 


BLAKE AND TOM’S CONCLUSIONS. 


181 


which seemed to her peculiar, inasmuch as he had idled in the 
tap-room for so long a time beforehand. Another peculiarity- 
had been observed by her, the man had come to the house on 
foot but with a spur on his heel. 

“ Thank God ! that clears Slink,” said the steward. 

When they were again in the cart Tom sat in sombre re- 
flection for some time, then he said : 

“ The odd thing is that Dido lost the lad’s scent close to that 
inn.” 

“ He did ! Then that carries us on still furder, Sir. The 
man with the spur on his heel might have given his horse to 
Slink. That would break the scent at once. You may depend 
upon it, Sir, that he’s the scoundrel who got that poor foolish 
lad under his thumb. And then again, look here, Master 
Tummas, he might have reckoned that if he succeeded in 
killing you, the murder would be charged against Toby, when 
it was found that you had gone in pursuit of him with the 
hound.” 

“ The inference is logical enough,” said Tom, after a few 
moments of thought. " But what on earth could be his 
motive? I never saw the man before in my life — to my 
knowledge.” 

To this question Blake could only reply by suggestions — and 
none of them seemed to Tom a satisfactory explanation of the 
mystery. 

“ One thing is sartain, the lad Toby is innocent, isn’t he, 
Master Tummas ? ” asked Blake, glowing with pride over what 
he considered his own particular achievement. 

"Yes. 1 am convinced of that — thanks to your sagacity.” 

“ Thank you, Sir, for the compliment. One must have his 
wits about him to manage an estate as I’ve managed Talbot 
Hall for fifteen years, and never had a single complaint from 
the Admiral or Doctor Blandly. Hows’mever, that’s vanity. 
Now we know it isn’t Slink as shot at you and killed the 
hound, and we are justified in supposing that it’s the man he 
calls his master. So much we’ve got at already — it ain’t much, 
but it’s summut.” 

" And there let it end,” said Tom, heartily tired of the sub- 
ject. 

“ Let it end ! ” echoed the steward aghast at the prospect of 
relinquishing an inquiry that had already reflected so much 
credit upon his intelligence, and which he anticipated would 
in the end raise him to the rank of a Machiavel in the society 
of the village ale-house. “ You’ll have the constables out, ana 
the beaters sure-lyl ” 


182 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


“ They can’t restore the life of my poor bitch.” 

“ But the man who killed her is at large — a villain* 

“ And is likely to be, for all the constables in Kent wouldn’t 
catch him now. The most likely supposition that we can come 
to is that his only motive in shooting at me was to get my 
watch and a few guineas. Having failed he would decamp 
quickly enough, and is now doubtless out of this shire and 
half over the next.” 

“ Lord love you, Sir, there’s a hundred holes and corners 
where a thief might hide, but Master Fergusson the constable 
know ’em every one.” 

“ A good reason for the thieves to avoid such holes and 
corners.” 

“ With all duty to you, Sir, I can’t think it’s right to let 
such a man get off scot free.” 

“He wouldn’t if I could have caught him. No good can 
come of pushing the inquiry further. If the man was caught 
there is no witness to prove he shot at me, the suspicion would 
rest upon Slink, and I might be called upon to prosecute him 
when it comes to light that he had taken my horse. We can- 
not wish that; for if he be the simpleton you describe, he 
deserves to be pitied rather than punished. I freely forgive 
him for his love of the hound. Make Jenny’s mind easy on 
that score, but say nothing about what has happened. Tell no 
one. Let it be a secret between us. I wish to avoid publicity. 
Now we will end the discussion, the subject to say the least of 
it is unpleasant, and the best thing we can do is to forget it as 
soon as possible.” 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

A LOVE LETTER. 

The steward obeyed his master and kept the events of the 
afternoon a secret from his admirers at the ale-house, because 
it was his duty ; but he felt it not less his duty to follow up 
the clue secretly in order to protect his master from further out- 
rages, however he might neglect his own safety. And so far 
from being of Tom’s opinion that the best thing to be done was 
to forget what had happened, he made it the central theme of 
his cogitations. 

He was compelled by his own vanity to disagree with the 
construction Tom had put upon the murderer’s motive. “ Gents 
has nothing to do but to get into mischief through jealousy 


A LOVE LETTER. 


183 


and such like, and why should Master Tummas, being a gent, 
not do likewise,” he reasoned. 

Tom’s unexpected arrival at the Hall, his gloom and tacitur- 
nity strengthened the idea that he was involved in some tragic 
complications, and after a few days Blake looked upon it as a 
certain fact that the unknown assailant was a ruffian hired to 
do him injury. Supposing this to be the case, he concluded 
that the ruffian would not leave the county, but wait in con- 
cealment until he found another opportunity of attempting his 
purpose. 

Without stating his object, he made inquiries in the sur- 
rounding hamlets, but the utmost he could learn was that a 
horseman and his servant had arrived at the * Ge >rge ” inn, at 
Ightham, on the morning of the same day on which the attack 
was made, and left it the same evening, taking the Wrotham 
Hoad. He was not discouraged by this result; the more he 
thought of the matter, the more satisfied he felt that his own 
conclusions were accurate, and the prospect of an ultimate 
triumph — of achieving alone that which his master had declared 
all the constables in Kent would fail to do — was an incentive 
to fresh endeavours. Every day he extended the radius of his 
inquiries. 

His peregrination took him away from the Hall for a consid- 
erable portion of the day. He was not wanted there. The 
business of the estate was in such admirable working order 
that it called for no attention. Tom made no inquiries, indeed 
he seemed to avoid conversation and to seek solitude. And 
Jenny was secretly rejoiced when her father said he was going 
out and would probably not return until late. 

Jenny had an idea that before long she should see Slink again, 
and the idea arose from no line of subtle reasoning, but from 
direct womanly intuition. During her father’s absence she 
spent the best part of her time at the little window, or in the 
load looking to the right and to the left in expectation. One 
afternoon, as she was standing thus, a piece of twig fell at her 
feet. She started in astonishment, for not a soul was to be 
seen up or down the road, then she heard the call of a black- 
bird, and knew that Toby must be in the wood facing the gates 
—for he could equal any bird at whistling. After a glance to 
assure herself that Mr. Talbot was not in sight, she approached 
the brambles on the opposite side of the road with a careless 
step and her eyes alert. 

“ Here, sweetheart — here 1 be /’whispered Slink. 

She nodded and seated herself on the bank beside the bramble 
through which she could see Slink’s head and shoulders. 


184 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS, 


“ Mr. Tom’s in the park somewhere/’ whispered Jenny. 

“ I know it, love, and your father’s hunting after me at Ot- 
ford — hut I’m right glad to risk my life for a chance of seeing 
your sweet face.” 

Jenny looked towards the hush, and her eyes half closed 
smiled in harmony with her lips. It was so delightful to have 
a lover who would risk his life for her, that she could not 
bring herself to tell him that Mr. Talhot had forgiven him. 

“ I’m not the coward I was, Jenny. ” Jenny shook her head 
in acquiescence. “ I do think it’s knowing that you love me 
gives me courage, dear.” 

“ How do you know I love you ? ” Jenny asked in a whisper, 
bending her head over her knees. 

“ ’Cause I don’t doubt it no longer.” Jenny nodded at this 
conclusive argument. “ An’ if you said you didn’t I’d up and 

say you wur a ” Toby paused, even passion would not 

justify him in using the appropriate word. 

“ What would you say I was ? ” 

“ I wouldn’t say not.hun, but I’d up and give you a great 
buss on the lips, so as you shouldn’t say it no more.” 

“ And supposing I wouldn’t let you kiss me P ” 

“ Then I’d kiss you more than ever.” 

His audacity seemed not displeasing to Jenny, and remem- 
bering what Barnabas had said, he continued : 

“ Snivelling and sneaking won’t win a girl’s heart if she’s any 
spirit. A man must be bold and venturesome, and laugh at her 
fine airs.” 

“ Where did you learn that ? ” asked Jenny suspiciously. 

“Hum! When a man goes out in the world he must 
learn.” 

“ You’ve been courting fine ladies in London, Toby.” 

“ Do you think I’ve got two hearts, Jenny ? And if I had, 
do you think I could love one of them ladies, all mucked up 
wi’ paint and powder, and dressed up like a Pope, after seeing 
of you with your fine brown arms, and your red face, and your 
dress all sweet and pure from the wash-tub P No, Jenny, I 
never wars such a fool as that’d come to.” 

Jenny gave a sigh of satisfaction, and smiled encouragement 
upon her lover, whose words were as good as poetry to her ear, 
and better perhaps, being intelligible, and coming straight from 
his honest heart. 

“And you, dear,” continued he, “you han’t took Master 
Tummus’s advice; you han’t looked about for no decent lad?” 

“ No, Toby, I won’t have ne’er a sweetheart but you.’* 

He took no notice of the distinction, but oblivious of danger 


A LOVE LETTER. 185 

started up to his feet, came to her side, and throwing his arm 
around her neck, gave her a hearty kiss. 

“ Don’t, Toby dear, don’t. Look, there’s master walking in 
the drive.” 

“ What’s the odds P I don’t care a button,” cried Slink, 
boldly. “ Don’t you fear, Jenny — he shan’t thrash me, nor no 
other man now.” 

“ But I shall get into trouble.” 

J enny rose from her seat. 

“ Don’t ye go, sweetheart. See I’m safe behind the briars 
again. Stay awhile, pretend to be plucking a posy. I’ve a 
plenty to say to you yet awhile. I didn’t look to see you. I 
daredn’t hope to speak wi’ you, so I wrote you a letter — least- 
ways I got a party to write it for me.” 

“ ’Tis all the same, and have you put it in the post ? ” 

“ No ; I feared it would go wrong, so I brought it wi’ me to 
throw to you when I see the chance. But I can tell you all I 
had put on the paper.” 

“ Give me the letter all the same, dear,” murmured Jenny, 
with an insinuating smile. A letter was a tender form of com- 
munication that she had never yet received, and did not wish 
to lose. 

“ Pluck at the hare-bell against the bush, sweetheart ” 

Jenny extended her hand towards the flower, and Slink 
catching it conveyed it to his lips. 

“ Quick, quick. I hear a cart coming, ’tis father belike.” 

“Aye, I know the trot of the old pony. There, take the 
letter, love, and fare thee well. I shall come for the answer to- 
night ” 

He put a packet in her hand, which he held while he bent 
forward and kissed her arm. Then he withdrew with com- 
mendable speed into the wood. 

Jenny waited a few moments in anxiety until her sweetheart 
disappeared before leaving the bank. "When she turned she 
found that Mr. Talbot was not more than a dozen yards from 
the gate ; that compelled her to be cautious. It was before the 
time of pocket-holes, and to get at her pocket it was necessary 
to raise the skirt of her dress, which could not be done with- 
out risking Mr. Talbot’s observation. She slipped her hands 
under her apron, concealing the letter, and stood with her head 
on one side as if trying to catch a glimpse of the approaching 
cart. As the steward came up to the lodge, Mr. Talbot turned 
his back on the gate and walked away over the lawn. 

u I’m going to the farrier’s, my gal,” said Blake, as the cart 
stopped. “ Here be the butcher’s meat for cook — take it.” 


186 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


Jenny lifted her right hand, keeping the other with the 
letter under her apron. 

“ Both hands, gal, or vouTl drop it, like as not.” 

“ No, I shan’t, father.” 

“ Do as I bid ye, and don’t he so lazy.” 

Jenny grew scarlet to the loose curls on her brow, dropped 
her head, and still kept her left hand covered. 

“ What’s a matter wi’ ye, cut your finger, lass P” 

Jenny, driven to desperation, nodded. 

“ Hei 1 hei 1 there’s nought to be ashamed of in that, show 
’un to me ? ” 

Jenny did not move, except to cover her face with her right 
hand. Blake tied the reins to the side iron of the cart and 
descended quickly. Another mystery called for the exercise of 
his perspicacity. Jenny remained immovable, while her father 
lifted her apron and took the letter from her hand. 

“ Highty tighty ! what have we got here ? A letter like 
one of the gentlefolks’, and spotted from end to side wi’ kisses in 
red wax. ‘Jenny Blake ’writ in a hand as good as I could 
write it. My gal, you haven’t been making acquaintance with 
any of these gentlemen rakes, I hope.” 

“ No ! ” exclaimed Jenny, scornfully. “ ’Tisn’t no gentleman, 
’tis only — only — Toby.” 

“ Toby 1 I knowed it ! I knowed it well ! He gave you it 
wi’ his own hand, didn’t he ? ” 

Jenny nodded. 

“Don’t be ashamed, Jenny, I ain’t a bit wroth wi’ you. If 
he’s the decent lad I believe him to be, I won’t come between 
you no more than a father should. Where’s Master Talbot ? ” 

“ There, across the lawn.” 

“Then we’ll go inside and read the letter; pony won’t 
budge. Come on, my gal.” 

Her father’s unexpected good-humour restored Jenny’s cour- 
age, and she followed him into the lodge with alacrity, no less 
eager than he to know the contents of the packet. 

Blake opened the cover and displayed a pink neckerchief and 
a folded paper. 

“ Here, Jenny, take the favour ; and now let us see what he 
says. 

“ ‘ Dearest sweetheart,’ ” he read. 

“ * This comes hoping to find you as it leaves me at present, 
thanks be to God ^(very pretty, to be sure), ‘barring I can’t 
sleep of nights for thinking how wretched I am all day parted 
from you, and living with a master who, speaking respectfully, 
as in duty bound, is no better than he should be, which often 


A LOVE LETTER. 


187 


and often I hare wished myself dead and in my grave/ (I 
could have sworn it was so. It’s a very good letter.” Jenny 
sobbed and wiped away a tear with her apron). “ Wished I 
was dead . — i Dear Jenny, I send you a token which you don’t 
need to be ashamed to wear, as I am not to give. It was 
bought with my own money honestly, mending the pig-sty for 
Mrs. Smith, the sexton’s wife, who is writing this letter for me 
now/ 

“ Smith the sexton, I don’t know him.” 

“Isn’t it a lovely letter, father ?” 

“ No, my gal, he ought to have put in where he is stopping, 
and told us more about his master j however, we may come to 
that presently.” 

“'Dear Jenny, if you only knew how glad I was to mend 
the pig-sty and earn money to buy you a token, though I don’t 
know whether you will think it is good enough to wear, al- 
though if you love me as I love you, with all my heart, and I 
ever shall until my dying day. Dear Jenny, I can’t tell you all 
I want to tell you, but if you will only meet me for two minutes, 
when your father and Mr. Talbot are away, I shall be able to 
tell you all. Dear Jenny, if you love me true, write me a letter 
and put it aside of the gate-post at night, and I will fetch it 
away when master is asleep, but if I am too bad for you to 
think of, tear up the token and put it in place of the letter. 
Dear Jenny, I shall love you and think of you always, and so no 
more at present from your humble and true sweetheart, 

“<T. Slink/” 

Having finished the letter, Blake sat down and stroked his 
chin in thoughtful silence, while Jenny, taking her treasures 
into the adjoiuing kitchen, shut the door and had a good cry. 
Before the plenteous fountain of her emotions was exhausted, 
her father called her. 

“ Jenny, my gal,” said he, when she opened the door and 
made her presence known by stifled sobs. “ When did Master 
Talbot say he was a-going to Maidstone ? * 

“ To-morrow, father.” 

“ What time P ” 

u I don’t know ; he told cook when she was asking about the 
butcher’s meat, that he should dine at Maidstone o’ Wednesday.” 

“ Ah ! then he’s sure to be out of the way betwixt six and 
nine. Get out my desk and write a letter to Toby just as I tell 
you.” 

Jenny opened the desk, and hastily composing herself, sat 
down with a pen in her hand. 


188 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


“ I’m ready, father,” said she. 

The steward, who had not ceased to caress his chin, dictated : 

“ Dear Toby.” 

“ Dear sweetheart ! ” wrote Jenny, and then waited, smiling 
at the endearing words. 

“ The master is going to dine with Mr. Barton at Maidstone,” 
Blake pursued. It was not necessary to state who was to be 
Tom’s host, but the conceited old man never missed an oppor- 
tunity of displaying his knowledge. 

“ Yes, father.” 

“ Mr. Barton at Maidstone — have you wrote that ? Bight — 
and my father and me will be quite alone. Do not be afraid 
of my father, he has found out that you are in the power of a 
bad man, and if you trust him he will get you free, and he will 
put you in a good place, and he will make Mr. Talbot forgive 
all that you have done, and he will permit you to court me if 
you trust him, and do what he tells you. So come to-morrow 
evening about six o’clock, and my father will be the best friend 
to. you that ever you had.” 

TIaving written this, with frequent breaks for correction and 
amendments, Jenny was instructed to put her name at the bot- 
tom. 

“ May I write a little word or two for myself ? ” she asked. 

The old man graciously accorded permission, and she wrote: 

“ Dear sweetheart, come about five through the wood, and 
if you see the little window open, you will know that Mr. Tal- 
bot has already gone ; ” and after that a dozen lines of senti- 
ment, which, being written for her sweetheart only, might 
seem nothing but sheer nonsense to any other reader. 

After supper Jenny placed the letter by the gate-post, and 
from her bed-room window watched patiently until in the dead 
of night she saw her lover take it from its hiding-place, and 
pressing it to his lips, vanish in the obscurity. 


CHAPTER XL. 

BARNABAS PREPARES FOR BUSINESS. 

“ If you please, your honour, may I have a few hours this 
evening P ” asked Slink. “ I’ve groomed the hosses, cleaned the 
stables, and made the bits and stirrups to shine like silver.” 

Barnabas was in the yard of the roadside inn, near Otford, 
where they bad been staying for the last six days, seated on a 


BARNABAS PREPARES FOR BUSINESS. 


189 


step, his legs stretched out, his hack resting against the stable 
wall, and his hat tilted over his nose. Barnabas puffed at his 
long clay pipe in silence, while he considered whether policy 
would justify him in refusing his servant’s demand. Slink had 
lately given him considerable anxiety ; a moral as well as phy- 
sical change had been apparent in the lad since the day he had 
had his hair cut. There was something more of a man and some- 
thing less of a fool in his appearance and behaviour. A tap 
on tne pistol-holster no longer awed him ; he only blinked 
when the lock of the pistol was exposed, and Barnabas feared 
to draw the pistol further for fear Slink, instead of sinking on 
his knees, should take to his heels. He couldn’t afford to lose 
him, or he might have been tempted to lead him into a quiet 
part of the road and try the effect of a running shot upon him. 
He began to fear that sooner or later Slink would bolt., and 
throw himself upon the mercy of his late master. That would 
never do. 

As harshness seemed to be losing its effect, he had been un- 
willingly constrained to adopt kindness as a hold upon him, 
and although he went no further than giving him beer and a 
few hours of liberty, the result was undoubtedly good. Slink 
was more cheerful, more ready to play piquet, more responsive 
to his wishes. Still Barnabas grudged the concession. 

“ Want to go out again,” he snarled, after a dozen silent 
whiffs. “ Have you got the Saint Vitus’s dance, or what’s the 
matter with you that you can’t stay still in one place for two 
minutes together ? ” 

“ There’s nothing to do, master.” 

“ Nothing to do. There’s piquet. I owe you your revenge.” 
This was the only debt that Barnabas ever acknowledged. 
" Nothing to do is the fault you have to find now, eh ? A little 
while ago you were snivelling because we were doing too 
much, what will content ye, I wonder. Here all for your 
sake I’m out of pocket for your fine clothes and your hair- 
dressing, and presents for your sweetheart, and I’m living in 
the country paying all expenses and treating you as an equal — 
living as innocent as a plaguey parson, and yet you’re not 
grateful.” 

“ Yes, I am, master. I — I — I’m very much obliged to you, 
and as to the expenses, you can stop ’em out of my wages.” 

Barnabas grunted at this suggestion, and after a few more 
whiffs: 

“ Well, you can take your few hours now,” he said. 

u Please, your honour, now won’t do.” 

u Why not P ” 


190 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


“ ’ Cause I want to take 9 em this evening.” 

“ Hum ! Where are you going ? ” 

Slink made no reply. 

Barnabas raised himself, tilted his hat off his nose so that ha 
could see Slink’s face, and repeated the question in an angry 
tone. 

Slink scratched his ear, and finding no means of evading the 
confession, answered : 

“ I’m going to see my sweetheart, an’ please your honour.” 

u I don’t mind you seeing her,” said Barnabas, his small eyes 
twinkling. u You will just make inquiries about Mr. Talbot ; 
find out what he does all day ; but you mustn’t mention my 
name. Yes, you can go ; but mind, don’t forget that you have a 
good, indulgent master, and don’t look sour when I bid you do 
your duty. Don’t be ungrateful, for ingratitude I can’t abide.” 

M You’ll never find me ungrateful, master.” 

“ And another thing— I’m always thinking of your welfare. 
You keep clear of Mr. Talbot, for if he can string you up on 
the tree he will. Beware of him.” 

“ Oh, there’s no danger, your honour, thanking you kindly 
for the warning — Master Tummus is going across to Maidstone 
this afternoon — that’s why I’m going a-courting Jenny this 
evening.” 

“ Why the devil didn’t you tell me that at first P Going to 
Maidstone this afternoon — alone ? ” 

“ Don’t know, master. One thing’s sartain — Master Blake 
ben’t going wi’ him.” 

Barnabas received this information in silence. Pulling his 
hat over his eyes again, he rested his elbows on his knees, and 
gave himself up to reflection, biting the waxed end of his pipe. 

Slink went off to the stable in high glee, saying to himself 
that after all his master was a good sort of man at the bottom, 
and greatly improved since he had given up hunting for his 
lost property. How he was to serve Barnabas and listen at 
the same time to the proposals of Jenny’s father was a problem 
which has just taken hold of his mind, when his master called 
from the yard, where he was still sitting nibbling his pipe- 
stem. 

“ Here I be, your honour.” 

“ Slink, you won’t be able to see your sweetheart to-night. 
I am going out, and I shall want you.” Barnabas raised his 
head, and catching sight of Slink’s lugubrious face, continued • 
“ Halloa, what’s this ? Looking glum at the first thing I tell 
you to do P Ah, I thought how it would be. This comes from 
being too indulgent.” 


BARNABAS PREPARES FOR BUSINESS. 


19 ] 


u You said I might go and see my Jenny,” whimpered Slink. 

“ Yes, and this is all the gratitude you show.” 

Slink rubbed one foot over the other, and tried to see what 
he had to be grateful for. 

“ I'm thinking of your interest now, though it’s a precious 
thankless task,” Barnabas pursued. “ You want to go back to 
your old service, don't you ? ” 

“ I don’t want to be ungrateful, master.” 

“ Answer me straightforward, yes or no — do you want to 
go back to the Hall ? ” 

“ Yes— I— I ” 

" Ah, 1 thought so. You can’t do anything, think anything, 
but I can find it out. I’ve thought of discharging you some 
time, but I wouldn’t let you go without making sure before- 
hand that you got a good master. Leave you to yourself and 
you’re bound to go wrong. Besides, if I didn’t say a good word 
for you, you’d be caught and strung up in a brace of shakes. 
No one would believeyour story with that hang-dog face to con- 
vict you. Now what I’m going to do is this : to-night, when Mr. 
Talbot is riding home from Maidstone, I shall trot up to him, 
tell him the whole truth about the horse, and ask him to for- 
give you. You can follow a couple of hundred yards behind, 
and if he agrees to pardon you, 111 give you a call and you may 
come up and make it all right at once ; but if he won’t I’ll 
ju3t quietly leave him, and we’ll look out for another master. 
There’ll be no harm done in asking him, will there? ” 

“No master, but will you do all that for me ?” 

“ Yes — though you scarcely deserve it. However, you may 
show your gratitude afterwards.” 

“ But wouldn’t it be better if your honour went up to the 
Hall to-morrow morning ? ” 

“ Oh, you think you have more sense than I have, hey ? I 
would be a pretty fool, indeed, to go up to the Hall, where 
there’s half a dozen men who at a word from their master 
would arrest me for being your accomplice.” 

Slink hesitated, he had learnt to doubt the Lieutenant’s pre- 
texts for making acquaintances on the road. Still rubbing hia 
feet together, he said with anxiety in his voice, 

“ You don’t think that Master Tummus owes you anything 
do you, your honour ? ” 

“ Not a penny-piece. Look here, you can do as I tell you or 
not, just as you like, but if you refuse this offer I make, do you 
know what I shall do ? ” 

“ No, your honour.” 

“ I’ll go straight off and turn King’s evidence against you for 


192 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


stealing the horse ; that will save my neck if it breaks yours, 
I’m determined I won’t be your accomplice any longer. Tm 
sick of you.” 

“ My accomplice ? ” 

“ That’s it. Don’t be a fool, Slink, and make me angry just 
at the very moment I’m trying to be nice and. kind to you. I’m 
taking the best and safest method of getting out of the diffi- 
culty you led me into, and you haven’t the gratitude nor the 
decency to help me. Do you think your sweetheart will have 
anything to say to you if you are no wiser nor better - than 
that P ” 

.“I’m not ungrateful, master — I only want to do what’s 
right.” 

“ So do I.” 

“Shall we have to wear anything over our faces, your 
honour ? ” 

Barnabas took the crape from his pocket and throwing it to 
Slink, said : 

“ You can burn it if you like ; now are you satisfied that 
there’s nothing to fear ? ” 

This proof seemed to Slink so convincing that he agreed to 
act according to his master’s instructions, and escaped to the 
stable to hide his shame in having doubted the honesty of the 
Lieutenant’s intentions. 

About seven o’clock they left the inn together, and passing 
Borough Green and Plaxtol, crossed the main road and follow- 
ing the windings of a long lane, came eventually to Bisford, a 
spot marked by the “ Three Barges,” an inn standing a dozen 
vards from the Medway, at the point where the bye-road from 
-Sevenoaks joined the tow-path to Maidstone Bridge. It was 
by this route Slink assured his master that Mr. Talbot would 
probably return, the distance to Ta'bob Hall being far less, and 
the lanes more agreeable to a hon email than the main road. 
It was yet early for one to leave a dinner party: after a 
minute’s consideration, Barnabas led his horse into the yard of 
the “ Three Barges ” and dismounted, giving Slink instructions 
to bait the horses well. From the settle in front of the inn, 
the tow-path could be seen for a considerable length, and here 
Barnabas sat until the distance became indistinct. It was 
nearly nine o’clock when they remounted. Barnabas trotted 
slowly along the tow-path ; Siink followed at a safe distance. 
Both were on the alert; Slink preparing to fly at a moment’s 
notice, Barnabas taking in the natural advantages of the situa- 
tion as they passed before his practised eye. There was one 
space which he stopped to examine minutely. A light vapour 


BARNABAS PREPARES EOR BUSINESS. 


193 


hung over the water, reflecting the twilight of the summer 
night, but the tow-path shadowed by the wide-spreading boughs 
of a row of elms was in deep gloom. A gate at one time had 
crossed the path ; only the posts stood now, one by the hedge 
which lay between the path and the elms, the other upon 
the steep edge of the river bank. Beyond the hedge rose a 
corn covered hill ; on the opposite side of the river there lay flat 
meadows. Nothing living was to be seen except the shadowy 
outline of a cow in the water meadow. The “Three Barges” 
lay half a mile behind. 

Turning in his saddle, Barnabas called to Slink: 

“ How far to Maidstone Bridge ? ” 

“ A mile and a half or thereabouts.” 

Barnabas turned his horse and walked back to Slink, looking 
at the hedge. 

“ Can you get through the hedge anywhere ? ” he asked. 

“ There’s a gap lower down, your honour.” 

u Get through and put yourself under cover, There are not 
many folks come along here this time of night, hey ?” 

“ Not one a week.” 

“Stay by your horse in the lee of the hedge until you hear 
me call. If I don’t come for three hours, wait. You can think 
of all the good things that are likely to happen. I am going 
on to Maidstone, and when you hear me call you, your Mr. 
Talbot won’t owe you any grudge. 

“ I — I — don’t seem to hatfe much courage, master — I — I hope 
it will be all right.” 

“ If you obey it will be all right ; if you don’t you’ll hang, 
or I’m a Dutchman,” 

Barnabas retraced his steps slowly until he came to the two 
posts ; then he dismounted and tested the strength of the posts. 
They were firm enough for his purpose. From under the 
rolled cloth on the bow of his saddle he took a closely bound 
hank of cord ; unwound, it was a six yards’ length of three 
stranded line not thicker than an ordinary pencil, but tough as 
wire. One end he tied to the post by the hedge, the other to 
the post on the bank, forming a barrier about two feet from 
the ground and invisible in the gloom. Having tested its 
strength, and satisfied himself that it was reliable, Barnabas 
remounted, and trotted off towards Maidstone* 


194 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

THE BUSINESS IS DONE. 

(t Shall I go by the road or the tow-path ? ” Tom asked him- 
self as he passed the gate and walked bis horse over Maidstone 
Bridge. The road was hard and uninteresting ; the tow-path 
was turfed; for a full mile ; the river was seductive. There is 
ever a tender sentiment in flowing water, and Tom’s heart being 
open at this moment to the influence of sentiment, he took the 
tow-path. A man is never more ready to take an amiable and 
hopeful view of society and himself than when he has been 
drinking good claret. Tom had drunk a bottle of excellent claret, 
and as he trotted beside the grey river he felt happier than he 
had been for many days. 

He was not a spiritual being, with a soul independent in its 
action to the movement of a liver, but simply a man of firm 
flesh and untainted blood, with moral attributes more or less 
subject to the guidance of circumstances. 

Having chosen the path chiefly for the opportunity it gave 
him for indulging in reverie, he closed his eyes to everything 
but the mental figure of Lady Betty — even to the soft surround- 
ings of grey river and star-lit landscape, which gave tone to his 
reflections. 

Not a sound disturbed his sweet and dreamy thoughts, until 
leaving the turf his horse’s hoofs clattered on a harder path. 
The lively ring seemed to awaken more vigorous ideas. Putting 
his horse to a trot, he said, as if to conclude the subject of his 
meditation : “ Ah, well ! if I can but manage to keep away for 
a few months until my Lady Betty’s mind is resolved, all may 
be well — all must be well. If she has found no one more lovable 
than me, then ’twill be joy for both of us, and if ’tis my fate to 
learn that there is another man capable of making her happier 
than she might have been with me, why then,” with a sigh, 
“ so much the better for her, sweet girl.” 

What was the sound that mingled with the rattle of his 
horse’s hoofs — an echo ? He reined in and turned upon the 
saddle, for the sound, unabating, came from behind. lie could 
see nothing, for a bend in the river interposed a veil of mist, 
but clearly a horseman was following. Had he forgotten and 
left behind anything, and was it Barton in the rear P No ; 
Barton had complained of his horse being dead lame as an excuse 
for not accompanying him on the road. Was it an honest mau 
or a rascal ? The probabilities were so equally balanced as to 


THE BUSINESS IS DONE. 


195 


give no choice. He put his horse to the gallop for a couple of 
minutes, and then reined in quickly. The horseman behind 
was galloping, and Tom had no longer any doubt as to his 
character. "What was to be done P To turn his horse and wait 
for his adversary in a narrow path shaded by trees would be 
unwise. 

“We will have a race for it until we reach the open,” said 
Tom, “ and then ” he opened his holsters. 

It was pitch dark beneath the trees, and at a break in the 
path Tom was within an ace of being pitched into the river. 
“ I won’t break my mare’s knees for a confounded thief,” said 
he, checking her pace to a trot. 

He could hear that his pursuer had not relaxed his speed, 
and was gaining ground quickly. Nevertheless he kept the mare 
at a brisk trot, feeling certain that he must be near an opening 
which he remembered. 

“Stop, curse you!” cried Barnabas, now within a dozen 
yards of Tom. 

The cry had the effect he desired. Tom’s mare, more 
frightened than he, broke away with a bound, and the next 
minute her legs were struck under her by the extended cord, 
and she fell upon the line, shooting Tom out of the saddle and 
on to the bank, and the mare and he lay as still as the dead. 

Rapidly dismounting, for the mare lay across the path, 
Barnabas looked for the thrown man, and caught sight of the 
dark body lying half over the bank, and clearly defined against 
the grey mist of the water. Standing by the fallen horse, he 
cocked his pistol, levelled it at Tom’s lifeless body, and fired. 
At the same instant — perhaps startled by the detonation — the 
mare struggled to gain her feet, and struck her iron heels 
against the right shin of Barnabas. He fell with a scream, 
while she, plunging wildly, went over the bank, and, with a 
splash, into the water. 

“ Slink! ” roared Barnabas. 

“What’s the matter, master; what’s happened ? ” cried Slink, 
running up. 

“My leg’s broke, that’s what’s the matter. What’s that 
sound?” 

“Voices, master; somebody’s coming. Good Lord! what 
have you done ? ” 

“Voices! Get my other pistol. Quick, or it will be the 
worse for you. Do you hear ? ” 

“ Yes, master, yes. But dear heart ! don’t you think you’ve 
done enough mischief with t’other ? You’ll break your other 
leg, maybe.” 


13-2 


196 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


“ Plague take you, my pistol ! What’s that ? ” 

“ I’ve dropped it, master, and I can’t find it, and — oh, zay 
goodness ! there’s the voices again.” 

A volley of oaths, and then Barnabas cried, “ Bring my 
horse closer — lift me up. Oh ! ” More oaths as Slink raised 
him upon his left leg, and he laid his arm over the saddle. 
u Now catch hold of my left leg and lift.” 

Slink obeyed, enabling his master to lie across the saddle, 
and following his instructions, led the horse along the path to 
the gap, a couple of hundred yards below, and through it into 
the cornfield where Slink’s horse was patiently browsing under 
the cover of the hedge. 

“ Lift me off, and for your own sake handle me carefully. 
Quick, or I shall swoon.” 

When he was laid upon the ground, and had taken a gulp of 
spirits from a bottle, he said, between his groans and oaths, 

“ I don’t hear any voices now.” 

“ I do,” said Slink, trembling. A3 a matter of fact the voices, 
if they had existed outside of Slink’s apprehensions, were silent 
now. 

“So much the better,” said Barnabas. “It will be necessary 
for you to look sharp if you wish to escape hanging.” 

“ What’s to do now, your honour ? ” asked Slink, trembling 
in every limb. 

“ Talbot’s been thrown from his horse, and lies there by the 
water’s edge with his neck broke. If he’s found there you’ll be 
hanged for it. Go back and shove his body into the river.” 

“ I couldn’t your honour, I couldn’t,” Slink whispered. 

“ What, afraid of a corpse ! Go and do it, or by George I’ll 
call out for assistance and swear you murdered him P ” 

“ For the love of heaven spare me, master, dear ! ” 

“ Go and do it ; ’tis to save your own neck. Go, or I will 
call murder. Are you going ? Mur ” 

“ Don’t call, master, I’ll do it. He’s dead, you say ? ” 

Barnabas raised himself to answer ; a scream escaped his lips, 
which terrified Slink into immediate obedience, and as he 
departed his master fell back in a swoon with the agony of his 
fractured limb. 

By slight degrees he slowly returned to consciousness. First 
he saw the boughs over his head, and through them the stars 
in the still heavens ; then he heard the horses cropping the 
vegetation; then he felt pains in his leg; finally he recollected 
what had taken place. He felt cold about the throat, and 
putting his hand up felt that he was wet. How had that come 
about ? He had not fallen in the water. Where was olink ? 


ILL TIDINGS. 


197 


Had he left him there to fare for himself, and escaped to save 
his own neck ? No, the horses were there. He called, and a 
slight rattling noise, which he had noticed without being able 
to account for it, ceased as Slink answered : 

“Here I be, master,” and he crawled into sight showing a 
face that was visible in the gloom by its ghastly pallor. 
“ You’re not dead, are you master ? ” he asked, anxiously. 

“ No,” answered Barnabas, in a mild tone — grateful, not to 
Slink for his fidelity, but to the luck that had not entirely for- 
saken him. “ What’s this wet on my neck — it isn’t blood, is it P ” 

“ No ; only water. Seeing you was dead I went and fetched 
a hatful of water to bring you to life. Thank mercy you’re 
alive, master ! Oh, what a night this has been ! ” 

“ Put your finger in your mouth if you can’t keep your teeth 
still. Do you think I want the castanets to cheer me up P 
Well, have you done it ?” 

“ Done what, master ? ” 

il Pitched Talbot’s body in the river.” 

Slink gulped as though his dry throat choked utterance, then : 

“ Yes, I have,” he said, and added fervently, “may God for- 
give me ! ” 

“ Well, go on ; tell me how you did it.” 

“ I can’t — I can’t. Oh, when I rolled him down the bank, 
and he lay there in the water, with his face all white except 
for the dark stain, all white and turned towards me from 
among the rushes •” 

“Great powers You didn’t leave him like that to bear 
witness against me*? You shoved him in altogether?” 

“ Don’t ask me ; for mercy’s sake don’t ask me ! ” said Slink, 
in a terror that made his speech hardly intelligible. 

“ One word, fool. Did you shove hiis head in or not? ” 

“ Yes, I did,” and then, sinking on his knees. Slink said again, 
“ God forgive me ! ” 


CHAPTER XLH. 

ILL TIDINGS. 

Mrs. Walker stood in her drawing-room arranging the 
ribbons of her elegant bonnet before a glass. Lady Betty sat 
near a window working at a strip of embroidery. 

“ Once more, Lady Betty, will you accompany me ? ” asked 
Mrs. Walker. 


198 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


"Once more, Felicia, and at the risk of being thought 
ungrateful, no.” 

" ’Twill be the best and genteelest entertainment of the 
season.” 

" I hope you will enjoy it. You shall tell me all about it 
to-morrow ; that will increase your pleasure.” 

" You can change your dress in half an hour, and I shall wait 
willingly.” 

" Why do you press me ? ’Tis a waste of sweetness, like 
singing to the drowsy.” 

" It has been said that my singing would cure the drowsy of 
their weakness. If I thought my powers of persuasion were 
equally potent I would not tire until I had cured you.” 

" Why should you take such pains ? ” 

"Because your symptoms are grave, and gravity of any sort 
is repugnant to me.” 

" Is there no season when it becomes one to he grave ? ” 

" Yes ; hut happily the season does not set in before forty.” 
Mrs. Walker seated herself. 

" You will be late, Felicia.” 

" No ; the invitation was for four, and ’tis only on the stroke 
cf six. I think I shall set the fashion of stating the hour at 
which an entertainment is to close instead of that at which it 
should commence. ’Twould be more reasonable.” 

" Then for your own sake do nothing of the sort ; for if you 
are suspected of being reasonable you will certainly be convicted 
of being unfashionable.” 

" Ah me ! Your case is very bad indeed,” sighed Mrs. Walker. 
" How long do you think it will be, Lady Betty, before you 
smile again ? ” 

"I cannot say; for the sake of appearances I hope I shall 
not smile again — before I find something to smile at.” 

" My dear, I know the secret of your gravity and sarcasm, 
and shall take upon myself to give you a lecture. You are 
thinking about that ill-mannered young gentleman, Mr. Tom 
Talbot.” 

"I do not know any ill-mannered gentleman of that name.” 

“ Well, we will not call him a gentleman, if the definition is 
incorrect — this highly-respectable barbarian who was called to 
order by our friend Gerard Crewe for insulting you.” 

" Who told you that P ” asked Lady Betty, quickly. 

"No one. I drew my conclusion, which seems to be correct, 
from the fact that neither you nor Mr. Crewe would give me 
any information of what occurred in the library when the 
challenge was given. Our barbarian does not conceal his faults, 


ILL TIDINGS. 


199 


and we can imagine how he would misbehave himself if his 
untamed passions were provoked. The offence was so unpar- 
donable that Mr. Crewe found it necessary to punish him. At 
that moment you had every reason to he satisfied. Your 
affront was about to be avenged; a well-bred gentleman under- 
took to risk his life as your champion, and make you the talk 
of society, and the envy of your friends. But with strange 
perversity you closed your eyes to the advantages of your 
position, and lost your senses as completely as Ophelia. To be 
sure you didn’t drown yourself ; but that was no fault of yours, 
you got as wet as you could. When the result of the meeting 
was known, your joy was almost as terrible as your fears had 
been. Altogether, for about twenty-four hours you suffered as 
much romantic emotion as the heroine of a tragedy — and for 
whom P For the gentleman who risked his life for your 
honour— who spared his rival for your sake — who waits upon 
you day by day with untiring devotion — whose generous love, 
unencouraged by a single smile, unrewarded by one word of 
acknowledgment, seeks constantly to gratify your unexpressed 
desires — who bears with you patiently in your womanly follies 
and caprice, and takes your passive tolerance as the guerdon of 
his affection — a gentleman, handsome* well-bred, and gracious 
— was it in his peril you suffered — in his safety you rejoiced P 
No. ’Twas for a man the very opposite of him — a man rough 
and rude as the savage from the woods, intolerant and unap- 
preciative, a tyrant who would be a slave, a slave who would 
be a tyrant ; a barbarian, who having offended does not seek 
forgiveness, who having frightened you to desperation, values 
your sympathy so little that he leaves you in despair and 
allows his rival to relieve your fears ” 

“ You exaggerate to extravagance.” 

“ I deny it. Who was it came to tranquillise your mind after 
the meeting — t-he man you loved or the man that loved you ? ” 

11 Gerard does not love me in the sense that you imply. He 
is my friend simply.” 

“ And mine also ; but if he paid me the same attention my 
husband would not be jealous without a cause. What 
extravagance can you prove against me ? Is it not the bare 
truth that from the day he affronted you, Mr. Talbot has not 
once called upon you ? ” 

“ I forbade — that is — it was my wish that he should cease to 
visit me.” 

“ I do not take obedience as a proof of love, nor you either. 
Tell me candidly why you have refused invitations since the 
meeting ; why you have stayed within doors from morning 


200 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


until night; why you start when you hear a visitor arrive ; 
and, lastly, tell me why you are sitting by that open window ? 
You are silent — your conscience tells you that you expect him 
to disobey.” 

“ My conscience tells me nothing of the sort. You are quite 
wrong, Felicia.” 

“ Then why do you refuse to accompany me this afternoon ? 
Be candid, Lady Betty — you owe me an explanation. You 
will find me more indulgent as a confidant than as a successful 
inquisitor, and I assure you I never suffer my curiosity to rest 
unsatisfied.” 

“ J Tis not fear of ridicule that makes me reticent,” said Lady 
Betty, after a few moments of thoughtful silence. “ But on 
some subjects we differ so completely that it is useless to dis- 
cuss them — and painful also when one feels deeply. However, 
I will not suffer my reserve to reduce you to the unamiable 
task of examining into the secrets of your friend.” 

“ Thank you, my dear,” Mrs. Walker replied, with a graceful 
bow. 

“ I do love Mr. Talbot. I love him with all my heart. 
You would like to know why. It is a question I have hardly 
asked myself. I admire him for those very barbaric qualities 
that you deprecate, perhaps for qualities that you have not 
recognised, and would not admire if you did.” 

“ I should like to know them all the same.” 

“Strength of heart, fidelity, trust ” 

“ Et cetera. He has no fault, I suppose P ” 

“ None that time will not remove.” 

“Well, thank the stars you may outlive him by a dozen 
years. Go on, dear.” 

“There is no act of his that I can justify ” 

“ Even to his late neglect ? ” 

“ ,r Tis not neglect, but the faithful execution-of a plan which 
we conceived necessary to my happiness. I acknowledge that 
after the duel I hoped he would break through his resolution 
and come to me; now I rejoice that he was stronger than 

“I see. It is the fear that he may yet succumb which 
makes you so anxious when a knock at the door announces a 
visitor; and you refuse to leave the house in order that you 
may not lose the opportunity of reprimanding him for his error 
if he should come, hey ? ” 

“No. 1 do not expect him, nor hope •” She stopped 

abruptly as the sound of a voice upon the stairs reached her 
ears. 



ILL TIDINGS. 


201 


Mrs. Walker laughed lightly and kept her eyes fixed on 
Lady Betty’s anxious face. The door opened, and the servant 
announced : 

“ Mr. Gerard Crewe.” 

A ray of satisfaction lit up Lady Betty’s face, much to the 
perplexity of Mrs. Walker. 

Gerard entered, went through the form of salutation 
mechanically, and took a seat in silence. Lady Betty felt that 
she was being watched, and took up the embroidery in her 
trembling fingers. Unusually constrained and ill at ease, 
Gerard fixed his eyes on her for a moment, dropped them, 
raised them again, without opening his lips. Highly amused 
with a fancied discovery, Mrs. Walker, after contemplating the 
two friends for some moments, rose, saying with a malicious 
smile : 

“ Mr. Crewe, you will forgive me, I am sure, if I leave you 
to the entertainment of Lady Betty.” Then crossing to Lady 
Betty, she said a few words of farewell, and bending down to 
kiss her, added in a -whisper: 

“ I understand now why you do not wish Mr. Talbot to 
return. You are a more consummate coquette than I thought. 
May the best man win, dear.” 

Gerard closed the door after Mrs. Walker, and took a seat 
near Lady Betty, saying : 

“ My mission has taken me longer than I expected, and I 
have only painful news to give you. 

“ Painful news p” murmured Lady Betty, as if uncertain of 
what she heard. 

“ You must summon your fortitude to hear that which my 
tongue must falter to tell.” 

“ Tom is ill ! ” She rose quickly and threw aside her work, 
as though prepared to go at once to the relief of the man she 
loved. 

“ It is not illness. Sit down, Lady Betty, unfortunately you 
can do nothing to lessen the calamity.” 

“ That word is ill-chosen, if he is not ill. Tell me what has 
happened without hesitation. 1 am prepared for painful news. 
You have not found Tom, or he has left England — but that is 
not a calamity, and I can hear worse than that bravely.” 

“ A misfortune that leaves us hope is to be borne ” 

Lady Betty interrupted him : laying her hand upon his arm, 
and speaking scarcely above her breath, she asked : 

“Is Tom dead ? ” 

“ We can only hope that he is not.” 

“ Ah, you are trying to break the fall of this blow. You 


202 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


are concealing the truth from me. I know all ; I read it in 
your trembling lips and pitying eye — Tom is dead. My poor 
fond Tom is lost to me for ever. Be merciful and tell me the 
truth with cruel words that my heart may break with the 
shock.” 

“ Be calm — there is hope.” 

“Oh, God bless you for that word, you good friend — dear 
Gerard ! What a foolish girl am I to think the worst at a 
mere word ; scold me, Gerard, for my folly.” 

“ My poor child — there is hope, but it is so slight ” 

“ That it were better there was none ! True. Why should 
we encourage a fearful suspense. Let us realise the truth at 
once and not believe the fact. Tom is dead, is he not P ” 

“ It may be best to think so, indeed.” 

Lady Betty fixed her eyes upon Gerard in a bewilderment 
of agony, and was silent for a moment, then taking his hand 
between hers she said in low reproach : 

“ Oh Gerard — we loved each other, we two — Tom with his 
whole heart, and I with mine, and love is more than life. For 
two to die is nothing, but for me to live and lose, is terrible. 
Think, I lost my mother but two months since, would you add 
to that loss a greater still ? Tell me, he is not dead — cheat my 
senses for a little while with seeming truths. I am simple and 
easily beguiled. You shake your head, and yet you profess to 
love me. Can you see me suffer, and offer no word of consola- 
tion — I do not weep, but I suffer here — here at my heart, beating 
slow and leaden as though the life had gone out with the love 
he planted there. Pity me ! give me a word of comfort, for 
I cannot cry. You have tears in your eyes, and suffer too, but 
not as I do. Say a word to me, no matter what — but do not 
look at me in silent sorrow, so.” 

“ I will tell you all that has happened, and you shall use 
your woman’s wit to catch the rays of hope.” 

“ Yes, yes — I will listen calmly and patiently — tell me all, 
leave not a word unsaid. Hide nothing, be the facts ever so 
ghastly. Women are strong in scenes of terror, and do not 
shudder to look upon a gaping wound that they may find the 
means to heal.” 

“ I will tell you faithfully all that has occurred since I left 
you on Tuesday. 1 knew that if anyone could tell me where 
to find our friend Tom it would be Dr. Blandly, and I went 
first to Edmonton where he lives. There I learnt that the 
Doctor had left home hastily and gone to Talbot Hall in Kent, 
on business of urgent importance. I followed him and arrived 
at Talbot Hall the same night. Doctor Blandly was in deep 


ILL TIDINGS. 


2 3 


distress, for Tom, who has been staying- at the Hall since we 
last saw him, was missing 1 , and up to that moment no trace of 
him found. On Wednesday afternoon, he left the Hall to dine 
with a friend at Maidstone. Late at night, as the steward’s 
daughter was watching at her window, Tom’s mare ran up 
riderless to the lodge gate. Her knees were cut, and her saddle 
wet. The steward started off at once to make inquiries at 
Maidstone, and found that Tom had left his friend about ten 
o’clock. As soon as it was light a search was begun. The 
steward took the first London coach and sought Doctor Blandly. 
When he arrived, a few hours before me, nothing had been 
discovered. While he was telling me this, the steward 
returned to the Hall bringing with him Tom’s hat, which had 
been found in a sluice some distance below Maidstone. It was 
conjectured then that he had followed the upper bank of the 
river, and in attempting to ford it had been carried away by 
the force of the current.” 

“ But he could swim. He was master of all manly exercises. 
Oh ! I know he is safe! Why do you despair? — for you do: 
your face tells me so.” 

“ Yesterday morning as soon as it was light, the search was 
recommenced. The keeper of the bridge-gate believed that a 
gentleman on horse had crossed the bridge at ten, and while 
some explored the path below the bridge, where poor Tom’s 
hat had been found, others examined the tow-path which leads 
on the lower side of the river towards a bye-road communi- 
cating with the neighbourhood of Talbot Hall. It was there 
that we found new traces. There was a broken cord upon the 
posts of an old gateway. On the river bank beside it were the 
marks of a horse’s hoofs, and a little further on the reeds were 
crushed and broken, foot-prints were upon the bank, and a 
trail by the rushes as though a heavy body had been drawn 
over the soft mud.” 

“ That showed that he had drawn himself from the water.” 

“ I fear not — the herbage and rushes were depressed and 
matted in the yielding clay towards the water, and not from it.” 

u Then what do you conclude ? ” 

" A week or ten days since Tom was shot at in a wood ; and 
it is only too greatly to be feared that the same murderous 
hand stretched the cord across the path which threw Tom’s 
mare, and afterwards dragged his lifeless body into the river.” 

“ Oh, Heavens ! What else have you to tell ? ” 

“ Nothing. We found no more.” 

“ You only confirm my despair. You leave me no space for 

hope. 


204 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


“ One fact alone forbids despair ; we have not found Tom’s 
body. The river has been dragged between the place where 
he was thrown, and the sluice where his hat was dis- 
covered, wit hout result. It is possible that he was only stunned 
by the fall from his mare, and restored to consciousness by the 
immersion in the river he saved himself by swimming to the 
bank.” 

“ Why that is more than possible — it must be so.” 

“But he has not returned to the Hall. And we have 
inquired at the inns beside the river for miles, and no one has 
seen him.” 

“ Then all is lost.” 

“ The current is strong, for the river has been swollen by the 
heavy rains of last week, and our one hope is, that when con- 
sciousness returned to him he was far down the river. Ex- 
hausted, perhaps hurt, he may be waiting in some remote 
cottage until he has sufficient strength to return to us.” 

“I pray God it may be so,” said Lady Betty, clasping her 
hands, and speaking with all the fervour of her soul. 

Gerard bent his head, and added his silent prayer to hers. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

DOCTOR ELANDLY IN STANHOPE STREET. 

A fortnight later Doctor Blandly called at the house in 
Stanhope Street, presented his card, and asked to see Miss 
Elizabeth St. Cvr. He was shown into the reception-room. 
The Doctor advanced to the middle of the room, and standing 
there looked round him with the curiosity of a student who 
has learnt to gauge the character of people" by the things they 
use in their every-day life. 

“ Very elegant, very elegant indeed,” said he, running his 
eye over the furniture and appointments, “ and about as hideous 
as the mind of man can conceive.” 

He took off his glasses to rub them before examining the 
pictures more closely, and was still polishing them with his 
yellow silk handkerchief when the door opened, and Mrs. 
Walker entered the room. 

“ Doctor Blandly, I presume,” she said, with an amiable smile. 

The Doctor adjusted his glasses carefully upon his nose, 
looked at Mrs. Walker attentively, and then answered : 

“ Yes, that is my name ; but unless I am greatly mistaken 


DOCTOR BLANDLY IN STANHOPE STREET. 205 

in your age, you are not the young woman I have come to 
see.” 

Unaccustomed to plain speaking, Mrs. Walker for a moment 
could not decide whether to resent or pass over Doctor 
Blandly’s brusquerie; however, her curiosity to know the 
object of his visit induced her to regard him merely as an 
amusing original. 

“ I am Mrs. Walker, the bosom friend of Lady Betty, who 
is now, at my persuasion, taking the air, but I expect her to 
return shortly.” 

“ In that case I will wait for Miss St. Cyr, if you will allow 
me.” 

Mrs. Walker made a courteous reply, and begged her visitor 
to take a chair. The Doctor scanned the collection of chairs, 
and selecting one from the further end of the room which 
seemed more trustworthy to sit upon thau the rest, he placed 
it in front of Mrs. Walker and seated himself, saying : 

“ If the frames of your chairs were as stout as the frames of 
your pictures, madam, there would be less danger in using 
them for their legitimate purpose ; if this room were mine, I 
would make a bench of the pictures, and hang up the chairs to 
look at.” 

“ You object to elegance, Doctor Blandly.” 

“ No, madam ; for elegance, as I take it, is that perfect har- 
mony of one part with another which we find in Nature’s 
handiwork ; but where is the harmony between my figure and 
the chair I sit upon with trembling ? ’Tis as if one set the legs 
of a gazelle under the body of an elephant.” 

“You are a humourist, Doctor Blandly.” 

The Doctor made a stiff bow, took a pinch of snuff, and 
showed no inclination to re-open the conversation. Mrs. Walker 
felt that she must either leave him or come to direct questions. 

“May I ask if you have made any discovery relative to 
poor Mr. Talbot P ” she asked. 

“ None. We have found not a sign nor trace since the second 
day of our search.” 

Doctor Blandly heaved a sigh, looked on the ground with 
raised eyebrows, and tapped the table with his fingers, while 
Mrs. Walker asked herself what could be the object of his 
visit to Lady Betty. 

“ I am naturally very deeply interested in the unfortunate 
gentleman, for Lady Betty was deeply attached to him, and is 
inconsolable for his loss.” 

“Inconsolable, madam? and he has been lost a fortnight 1” 
exclaimed Doctor Blandly, with awakened interest. 


200 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


“ I assure you it is true. I have done all I could to make her 
forget him, but in vain. She refuses to go to the opera, to 
Ranelagh, to tea-parties, to routs, and secludes herself in her 
own room when I have visitors.” 

“ I can scarcely understand a friend of yours being dull to 
such attractions.” 

“Yet ’tis the fact,” said Mrs. Walker, acknowledging the 
compliment with a bow. “ I admit that my patience is almost 
exhausted.” 

“ Such obstinacy would try the patience of a saint.” 

“ And ’tis entirely for her own sake that I use my per- 
suasions. She is wasting her time, perhaps jeopardizing her 
future happiness, by giving way to these morbid regrets, which 
avail nothing. Tears cannot revive the dead.” 

“ The truest words you ever spoke, madam.” 

“ I am glad to find that you agree with me, Doctor Blandly.” 

“ I hope you will never find me wanting in sense, Mrs. 
Walker.” 

Mrs. Walker flirted her fan, and greatly encouraged by the 
Doctor’s ambiguity, which she interpreted as a compliment to 
herself, proceeded : 

“ Lady Betty is in a position to make an admirable match. 
She is young, pretty, and has, it seems, a very useful little for- 
tune. She might reasonably hope to marry a young man of 
title : that was, I believe, her mother’s dying wish, and the 
dying wish of a mother should be observed as a sacred duty, in 
my opinion ; what do you think, Doctor ?” 

Doctor Blandly considered the sanctity of a mother’s dying 
wish unquestionable. 

“Now Mr. Talbot, although possessed of a good estate, had 
no title, and his behaviour in company was most awkward. 
He could not conform himself with the habits of society, and 
when he tried to do so he made himself ridiculous. He had a 
habit of contradicting people, and setting them right if they 
happened to make errors, which was extremely provoking, and 
he absolutely went to sleep in his seat during a very elegant 
performance of an oratorio by amateurs of distinguished rank. 
He made no secret of his dislike to the modern usages of Lon- 
don society, and I have not the slightest doubt that had he 
married Lady Betty he would have taken her away for nine 
months out of the twelve, to spend one half her time in a 
country Hall where it was impossible to keep awake, and the 
other half in foreign cities, where it was impossible to go to 
sleep. And so, to be quite candid, I must admit that — for her 
sake — I am not sorry to hear that you have not found Mr. 


LADY BETTY REACHES A TURNING-POI^T. 207 


Talbot. This morbid condition is not natural to her, and if 
we are fortunate enough to hear no more of Mr. Talbot, she 
will soon recover her health and spirits, and we may hope to 
find her a suitable husband amongst the many admirers she is 
sure to find at the Wells, where I propose to take her next 
month. You don’t think it probable that Mr. Talbot is alive, 
Doctor Blandly ? ” 

“ I cannot hope ! ” 

u Nor I, neither. Nothing is further from my hopes, I assure 
you, and so let us trust that we have heard the last of him, and 
that he is in a happier world.” 

“ You may rely upon your devout wish being gratified. If, 
as you hope, Mr. Talbot is in a better world than this, rest as- 
sured, madam, that you have seen the last of him.” 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

LABY BETTY BEACHES A TUBNING-POINT. 

When Lady Betty returned from her drive, she was met in 
the hall by Mrs. Walker. 

“ M y dear Lady Betty, a gentleman is waiting to see you.” 

Lady Betty’s heart leaped and her lip trembled. She had 
not yet relinquished the hope that Tom would return to her. 

“ A gentleman ! ” she echoed. 

“ An old gentleman. A perfect original. A most amusing 
old quiz, I protest. Doctor Blandly.” 

“ Has he brought me news P ” 

“Not a word. I have been trying for the last half-hour to 
liscover the object of his visit, but either he is very stupid or 
very ill-mannered, 'for I could get nothing out of him. I am 
inclined to think from his concluding observations that he con- 
siders himself clever. He is in the reception-room; go, my 
de?,r, and see what you can make of him.” 

Lady Betty opened the door at once, and found herself for 
the first time face to face with Doctor Blandly. Her mother’s 
description of him as he appeared in his gardening dress had 
led her to imagine him an untidy, coarse old man ; it astonished 
her to find him as he was — a particularly neat, fair-com- 
plexioned, portly gentleman, with a shapely leg, a handsome 
satin waistcoat, a snowy frill, and a well-curled wig. 

She made him a low courtesy, which he acknowledged, and 
then drawing near the wiudow, he placed a chair for her in the 


208 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


light, where he could see her more perfectly. She took tu*» 
seat, and he, bringing his chair directly in front of her, seated 
himself, and after looking at her pale, anxious face for a 
moment in silence, said : 

“ Your face tells me who you are, young lady, not from its 
resemblance to any face that I have seen, but that it answers 
to my expectations, and, let me add, my hopes. You are 
the Lady Betty that poor Tom gave his heart to.” 

Lady Betty’s chin twitched ; she tried to answer, failed, and 
dropped her head upon her bosom as the tears started to her 
eyes. 

“ Do not speak ; I will do all the talking for awhile. I am 
Doctor Blandly. Give me your hand, so. Let us who were 
strangers to each other be friends. Tom has left a space in our 
hearts that we must seek to fill with new affections. He was 
dear to me, and I am an old man, but to you, with younger 
thoughts and sympathies ” 

“ He was my life. I did not know how dear he was to me. 
I am like » child learning to value blessings by their loss.” 

“ ’Tis an unfinished lesson to the oldest,” said Doctor Blandly, 
gently. The tone of commiseration touched her to the heart. 
His sympathy was the first she had received. Gerard had 
sought only to console her ; Mrs. Walker endeavoured to reason 
her out of suffering; other friends she had none. She cried 
freely now, and Doctor Blandly did not attempt to restrain 
her tears. Purposely the old pathologist lanced her wound, 
knowing the relief it would produce, and he encouraged the 
outflow of her grief by gentle words of pity. After awhile 
her weeping ended in a long, shuddering sigh, and she wiped 
her eyes with a brave resolve to cry no more. But her soul 
was full of gratitude to the pitying Doctor ; she pressed his 
hands between her moist, hot palms, and looking in his face 
wondered how any one could mistake him for a misanthrope 
and a woman-hat^r. 

“No man who disliked women could be so womanly tender,” 
she thought ; “ no wonder Tom loved him.” Then her thoughts 
returned to her lost lover. u You have brought me no hopeful 
news P ” she asked, wistfully. 

“ No, my child ; the news I have to give you is not good.” 

“ Has his body been found P ” 

“ Even that poor consolation is denied us. It is concluded 
that he was carried by the current far down the river, and 
that the shore-folk robbed him of his clothes, and sunk his 
corpse to avoid inquiry, We shall never know where he lies.” 

Lady Betty, sighing, shook her head and lapsed into a reverie. 


LADY BETTY BEACHES A TUKNING-POINT. 209 


which Doctor Blandly did not interrupt. He wished her to 
exhaust her present grief before openiug the subject which 
had brought him to her. 

“No mound of green turf to mark his resting-place, no spot 
where one might cherish flowers to his memory/’ murmured she. 

“ He has your tears. A marble is not needed to keep his 
memory sacred in your heart.” 

“ I do not know, Doctor Blandly, I am not sure of myself. 
I wished to die when I heard that he was dead, but I live. 
This morning, though I did not eat, I felt quite hungry. Per- 
haps I shall cease to grieve one day.” 

“ I hope so ; you are too young and too healthy to brood 
long upon your sorrow.” 

“ But *tis heartless to forget the one we love.” 

“ ’Tis evil to repine when nature bids us smile. Be true to 
yourself, child ; weep when you grieve, eat when you are 
hungry, laugh when you are pleased. Leave false sentiment 
to false people — to creatures who cumber the earth and do no 
good in it ; to fools who cramp their souls, as the Chinese 
cramp their feet for fashion’s sake ; fools like the woman of 
this house here, who could put on a pious enthusiasm and lay 
aside her Godless indifference if the mode changed.” 

The Doctor frowned, took out his snuff-box, and tapped it 
angrily. Lady Betty opened her eyes in astonishment at the 
rapid transition of his temper. 

“ Come, I don’t wish to frighten you,” he said in a subdued 
tone, catching the startled expression on her face. “ You have 
a rough old doctor to deal with, who has seen such grievous 
miseries in the world that he has lost pity for sham ailments, 
and those who will not be well. Your body is weak, probably 
by fasting when you should have been eating, and that accounts 
for the gloomy hopes of perpetual sorrow that you wish to en- 
courage. Eat and drink, my dear, and sleep when you may. 
Be strong and brave to the utmost of your power, and, above 
all, be true to nature and yourself. The angels shall acquit 
you of heartlessness, and your own conscience will be satisfied.” 

Then the Doctor took his pinch of snuff, replaced the box 
quietly in his pocket, and dusted himself carefully with his 
India handkerchief. Lady Betty watched the play of his 
features with furtive glances, until he fixed his eyes on her 
face, and looked at her with troubled uncertainty. 

“ My dear,” said he — “ I have news for you, concerning your 
temporal position, which will give you trouble ; and I am in 
hesitation whether t < ell you now or to wait until your health 
is more robust.” 


14 


210 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


“ I can bear to hear anything now, Doctor Blandly.” 

“ Well, then, you shall hear what your friend Mrs. Walkel 
has been endeavouring to find out for half an hour and more. 
In the first, I presume that you know nothing of r he pecuniary 
position in which you were placed at your moth* r’s death.” 

“ She told me that she had placed her property in your 
hands for disposal, and her attorney sent me a sum of money 
about a month since, as a quarterly payment of the interest 
arising from it. That is all I know. After mamma’s death I 
was too troubled for a time to think of such trifles, and he — 
Tom assured me one day that I need not bestow any thought 
upon the matter.” 

“ If he were living it would still be unnecessary. Your 
mamma loved you very much, my child, but she was not a wise 
woman, nor a considerate woman. It was her dream that she 
should see you married to a wealthy husband before she died. 
To realise that dream she considered it necessary to occupy a 
position in society which the mere per-centage of her money 
could not procure.” 

“ Doctor Blandly — are you obliged to tell me this P ” 

“ I do not willingly undertake a painful task; it is only be- 
cause I think it necessary that I disclose the fact which others 
besides your mother have tried to keep secret. You cannot 
accept without inquiry a bare statement of the consequences 
attending your mother’s inconsiderate act P ” 

“ Tell me the result, and let me question afterwards if it is 
necessary.” 

“When the money you have now is spent, you will be 
penniless.” 

“ Penniless,” echoed Lady Betty, unable at once to grasp 
the meaning of the word. 

“ You have nothing more to receive. Do you comprehend 
all which that implies ? ” 

“ I will try to do so — when my purse is empty I shall have 
nothing to give the servant who waits on me; when my 
dresses are worn out — if I wish to leave my friend — if I stay 
— oh!” she clasped her hands as she realised that henceforth 
she must depend upon hospitality for a roof and charity for 
clothes. 

“ Shall I explain how this comes about ? ” asked the Doctor 
coldly. 

“ No,” she cried with quickened energy. " If my degradation 
is due to any act of my mother’s let it be hid for ever.” 

“ Remember the money was entrusted to me — a perfect 
stranger to your mother.” 


LADY BETTY BEACHES A TUBNING-POINT. 211 


u But not to Tom nor — nor to me. I am content to accept 
the result of my mother’s act without questioning her love or 
your honour.” 

Doctor Blandly bowed, but his forehead lost none of its 
creases, and he resorted to his snuff-box for the means of solv- 
ing the difficulty before him. 

“ I am afraid,” said lie, “ that you will not get that inquisi- 
tive woman, Mrs. Walker, to accept the result with your mag- 
nanimity, Miss Betty.” 

“ It is no business of hers.” 

u That is precisely my reason for expecting her to meddle 
with it to a very considerable extent. If you know how to 
cope with all the subtle attacks of an idle, curious, unprincipled 
woman, I am content to leave the matter as it stands.” 

“ If I tell her that I have lost my fortune, and refuse to 
explain how, what can she learn ? ” 

“ The truth possibly. If not she will imagine a cause, and 
publish it as a fact to sustain her own reputation. Does she 
know that I acted for your mother P ” 

“ Yes— she asked me, and I told her.” 

Doctor Blandly smiled, and rising from his ch air said — u Well 
well, we will see what happens. If in a week a lie circulates 
and reaches your ear, I shall be happy to disprove it.” 

“ Wait — 1 see what might happen. It did not strike me at 
at first. You might be accused of misappropriating the 
money.” 

“ Oh, I should take no notice of that,” replied the Doctor, 
sturdily. “ That’s a lie that could do you no harm. What I 
fear is, that the woman may resent your silence, and lay the 
blame upon you, or — one who is dearer to you perhaps, than 
yourself.” 

“ You mean Tom. But how could she introduce his name 
into an affair with which he had nothing to do ? ” 

“ She might discover that he had something to do with it ? ” 
il A word from you would disprove that.” 
u You are in error — I could not disprove it by any number 
of words.” 

“ You shall tell me all. How can he be concerned ? ” 
u You wish me now to tell you all ? ” 

“ Yes — I — I — I am not consistent perhaps, but I could not 
rest with anything that concerns him untold.” 

“ There is little to shock you in what I have to tell — and take 
this from me, my dear Miss Betty — concealment is more terrible 
than revelation ; no harm ever was done by telling and know- 
ing the truth, but from blinking it there has been more misery 

14-2 


212 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


on this? earth than you can suppose. When we admit that youl 
mother was loving and unwise, we give her blame and praise, 
that reduces her no lower than the level of womankind. To be 
deeply loving and deeply wise at the same time, seems hardly 
possible to our humanity. Look at your mother as a woman 
whose love exceeded her wisdom, and you can hardly regret 
her folly.” 

A faint smile of gratitude passed over Lady Betty’s face, and 
she nodded her head. 

“ Your mother, influenced by her hopes for your welfare, 
against my dissuasions determined on investing all her money 
in an annuity terminable at her death. She would not believe 
that her tenure of life was uncertain, though I warned her of 
her danger, and allowed my temper to express itself in no 
measured terms. 

“ Seeing the ruin that impended over you, I resolved to pur- 
chase the annuity with a sum of money Tom Talbot had desired 
me to invest for him, knowing that he would be just, and, more 
than that, generous towards you. He knew nothing of the con- 
tract until your mother’s death. I wished him to refund what 
remained of your mother’s capital ; but to spare you the know- 
ledge of your mother’s indiscretion he refused the proposition, 
and desired that the annuity should be extended to you.” 

“ Oh ! my good, generous Tom.” 

“ Alas, you have reason now to regret his generosity. Had 
he followed my advice you would now have had sufficient to 
secure you a moderate income.” 

“ Then I thank God I have nothing.” 

“ Hum ! You have not learnt much from the teaching of 
Mrs. Walker, or it has been of a negative kind. I doubt if any 
amount of generous sentiments would compensate her for the 
loss of eighteenpence.” 

“ He could have obliged me to sever myself from the society 
he disliked had he chosen to exercise the power he possessed.” 

“ He might, Heaven be praised, Tom’s faults were of a manly 
kind,” said Doctor Blandly, sententiously. “ Well, to come to 
the end of the poor fellow’s praises, the day before his duel he 
made me witness his will, which disposed of his property in 
two equal portions— one half for you, the other as I expect for 
me. Now don’t cry again, my child — it was a foolish will, and 
what the deuce he did with it no one knows. In his modesty 
he omitted to put my name in the document he showed me, 
and after it was fairly set out he took it away to insert the 
name. Possibly, he destroyed it when he left the field safe and 
sound $ possibly, he had it in one of his pockets when he was 


LADY BETTY REACHES A TURNING-POINT. 213 


thrown into the river, the result is the same. No will is to he 
found, and the whole estate reverts to his next of kin. That 
next of kin has made his appearance, and put in his claim. 

“ I am sorry to say his title cannot be disputed. From him 
one can expect neither generosity nor justice. He has a sharp 
lawyer at his back, and every penny to which the law entitles 
him will be called in. And now, my child, you know all my 
bad news.” 

Lady Betty smiled with a sigh of relief to find the bad news 
so good. There was nothing in it she regretted now. Even 
her mother’s fault seemed kind in the light thrown upon it by 
Doctor Blandly.^ 

“ You will wonder, Miss Betty,” said Doctor Blandly, after a 
pause, in which he watched the young pale face attentively, 
“ why I don’t take my hat and bid you good morning. When 
a raven has croaked, the next thing expected of him is that he 
shall fly away. As I stay, you may take it that I have a better 
disposition than a raven. Will you tell me if you have any 
friends other than the woman of this house ? ” 

“ Mr. Gerard Crewe is the only intimate friend.” 

“ A young woman can scarcely open her mind to a young 
man, or ask services of him, and a young man whose gallantry 
would lead him to do your bidding whether it be good or bad, 
and whose breeding would silence his tongue when it was 
necessary to give you unpleasant advice, is not the friend you 
need. Try me, young lady, and don’t be afraid of trying me a 
good deal.” He held out his hand, and Lady Betty willingly 
gave him hers — feeling as he held it the significance of his 
grasp. “Now tell me the state of your affairs, and we will try 
and come to an arrangement for the future. How much money 
have you P ” 

“All that was sent to me by the gentleman in Lincoln’s 
Inn.” 

“ And how much do you owe ? ” 

“ I do not know — since mamma’s death I have had dresses 
and bonnets, but Mrs. Walker said the tradesfolks could wait 
for their money.” 

“I warrant she did. Well, my dear, and did your mother 
leave any bills unpaid ? ” 

“Yes, a great many.” 

“Did she now.” The doctor appeared to be greatly sur- 
prised. “ But I daresay she gave a bill as well as received one. 
Do you think it possible that she gave a bill of sale upon her 
furniture and effects P ” 

u I received a letter yesterday concerning something of the 


214 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


kind, but I could not understand it. "We didn’t learn these 
matters in our arithmetic at school.” 

“ No, my dear — knowledge of this kind does not come undei 
the head of elegant accomplishments. But it should. Have 
you the letter ? ” 

“ It is in this pocket, I think. Yes — here.” 

Doctor Blandly read it through every word carefully, and 
folding it, said: 

“This polite note informs you that Mr. M. Moss will be 
under the painful obligation of taking possession of all your 
house in Park Lane contains, unless the sum of three hundred 
pounds is paid by the 25th instant.” 

“ Three hundred pounds ! I have not so much.” 

u No, Miss Betty — no,” the Doctor said, putting the letter in 
his pocket. “ I will call upon Mr. M. Moss this afternoon, and 
see what can be done with him.” 

“ Perhaps he will wait like the other tradesmen.” 

“I take it that Mr. M. Moss is a Jew ; if he is, one cannot 
rank him with the other tradesmen, for Jews are scrupulously 
exact in collecting their debts and taking advantage of their 
opportunities.” 

“ And my other debts ! ” Lady Betty was aghast as her 
eyes opened to the realities of her position. 

“ Collect all the bills you have, my dear, and let me have 
them. Not now, but when you are packing up your things to 
leave this house. By the way, will you do me the honour to 
be my visitor when you are free P ” 

Already the question, “ Where am I to go ? ” had risen in 
Lady Betty’s mind. This invitation came at the very moment 
it was needed. 

“ I shall be very glad to ” She checked herself abruptly, 

struck by the sudden perception of her dependent position. 

" Then that is settled,” said the Doctor, briskly. “ My house 
is too large for me. I will have two or three rooms prepared 
for you, and the sooner you come and take possession of them 
the better I shall like it.” 

“ Doctor Blandly, I am very grateful for your kindness. I 
shall accept your advice and seek it without hesitation, and I 
shall be happy to visit you ; but I beg you will not make any 
preparations, for my stay will be quite short.” 

Doctor Blandly was astonished by the altered tone in which 
she spoke — firm and self-reliant — and he looked at her curiously 
for a moment in silence ; then he rose, and with a stiff bow 
answered: 

“ Very good, Miss Betty, very good,” and taking a final pinch 


A FRIEND IN NEED 


215 


of snuff, he added to himself, “ Proud as Lucifer, for all hef 
misfortunes.” 

Lady Betty seemed absorbed in thought, and so after a few 
minutes of unproductive conversation, Doctor Blandly left her, 
pressing her hand warmly when they parted, and reading the 
unspoken thoughts in her clear eyes. He was not displeased 
with what he read there. 

But it took Lady Betty longer to find out what had prompted 
her to refuse Doctor Blandly’s hospitality, and to see that she 
had arrived at the turning-point in her life. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

A FRIEND IN NEED. 

Lady Betty ran with soft, quick steps past the drawing-room, 
and reached her room without interception, and sat there for 
half an hour after she had changed her riding-dress for an 
afternoon gown, with her hands in her lap and her eyes before 
her. Then she rose briskly and began to rummage her boxes 
and drawers where her papers were scattered — she was not a 
very orderly young person — selecting from among them the 
unpaid bills. 

“ Mistress is about to drink a dish of tea, and she wishes to 
know if you will join her as she is quite alone,” said a servant 
at her door. 

“ Say I will be downstairs almost immediately,” replied Lady 
Betty. 

She waited but to close the open drawers and boxes, and 
then ran down to the drawing-room, folding the collected bills, 
and putting them away in her pocket. 

“ My dear Lady Betty, this cruel visit must have quite un- 
done the good effects of your ride. I sympathise with you 
sincerely. Take this tea, my love, and tell me all about it. 
You found that dreadful old Doctor quite insupportable, I am 
sure,” said Mrs. Walker. 

“ On the contrary, I found him very kind and considerate,” 
replied Lady Betty, taking a seat at the table. 

“ I forgot that his interview was with Lady Betty. It is 
quite impossible to be unamiable with you, my dear.” 

Lady Betty inclined her head, and showed no signs of being 
communicative. 

“ He came chiefly to offer you his sympathy, I suppose, 
dear P ” said Mrs. Walker, returning undaunted to the charge. 


216 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


No, I think his main purpose was to speak about an affair 
of business. He was my poor mother’s agent, as you know. 
By-the-bye, Felicia, you have some unpaid bills of mine, I 
think. Could you let me have them ? ” 

“ My love, they are in a hundred different places ; it would 
take me a month to find them. You need not be anxious about 
them, they will be sent in again only too certainly.” 

“ I would look for you, if you could tell me where to search.” 

u Why are you so eager to have them p ” 

u I wish to pay them.” 

u Then I shall certainly not let you have them. Don’t look 
so preposterously grave, dear. The only pressing account is 
the dressmaker’s, and we must pay that, or we shall never get 
our dresses home in time. There ought to be a law to bind 
dressmakers to punctuality, then we should not be put to this 
harassing necessity of paying bills whenever they are presented. 
She will be here to-morrow with the fashions to measure us for 
our travelling-dresses, and I will settle your bill at the same 
time with my own. Don’t trouble yourself about the money, 
when we return from the Wells will suit me, or not at all, if 
you like it better.” 

“ How good and generous all the world is ! ” thought Lady 
Betty, and involuntarily her tongue spoke her thought. 

“ What have you to be thankful for ? — appreciation ? That 
follows as the natural result of your mingling with people of 
taste. I object to gratitude, ’tis a mean, middle-class sentiment, 
an acknowledgment of inferiority which is unknown to us. We 
are equal ; we are generous and expect generosity ; we accept 
services as our right. What style of bonnet shall you have 
for the journey ? ” 

“ I shall make my straw do.” 

“Straw! when nothing but beaver and silk is the rage? 
Nonsense ! You shall not dress out of fashion just because you 
have a little trouble on your mind. I shall buy you a bonnet I 
saw this morning : ’tis a charming trifle, and with a mantle to 
match.” 

“ Don’t you think my tippet will answer all purposes, the 
weather is hot ? ” 

“ All the better reason for not dressing lightly. Never be 
bourgeois in your habits. But why should I tell you this, who 
have always shown such excellent taste and headed the 
fashions ? ” 

“ It is necessary for me to be economical.” 

“ Oh, you are dreadfully, alarmingly shocking I Economical l 
what a horrid word I ” 


A FRIEND IN NEED. 


217 


" Nevertheless, my circumstances oblige me to be saving.” 

“ Another abominable expression, my dear. If at this 
moment you are pressed for money you must permit me to 
supply your wants. I have had property left to me, and I know 
what a long time it takes in passing through the lawyers’ 
hands. I assure you that for six months after my father’s 
demise I suffered unspeakable agonies, and I wished him back 
a hundred times, for I was at the mercy of his executors.” 

“ I have enough money for my present necessities, thank you, 
Felicia.” 

“ Then, in that case, you will have a silk bonnet, and what- 
ever is the bon ton in dresses.” 

Lady Betty inclined her head in acquiescence. She had 
accepted to go to the Wells with Felicia, and she was bound 
to dress consistently. 

Felicia bent forward and kissed her, pleased with her sub- 
mission. 

“ When shall we leave London ? ” asked Lady Betty. 

“ In three weeks at the furthest; sooner, if our dresses are 
finished.” 

“ And how long shall we stay there ? ” 

“ Until the end of the season. By that time you may 
reasonably hope to be in legal possession of your poor mother’s 
property. I suppose Doctor Blandly is an executor ? ” 

“No. My mother made no will. Poor soul I she had nothing 
to leave me.” 

“Nothing to leave you, Lady Betty! Why she was con- 
stantly talking about — ” 

“ She made a very unfortunate speculation shortly before her 
death, which has resulted since in the loss of all she possessed.” 

“But she settled something upon you, surely ? ” 

“ Not a penny, it was not in her power to do so.” 

“ You have not whispered a word of this to me hitherto.” 

“ I was ignorant myself until Doctor Blandly told me this 
afternoon.” 

“ And you heard him without going into convulsions ? you 
did not even faint away ? and you can sit there and talk about 
it as calmly as if nothing had happened p Oh, I cannot believe 
it!” 

“ It is quite true.” 

“ But you have some resource ; Doctor Blandly, perhaps, has 
promised you assistance ? ” 

“ I have no resource, in the sense you mean, and I cannot 
accept assistance from a gentleman unrelated to me by any ties 
of kindred or family friendship.” 


218 


LIEUTENANT BAKNABAS. 


“ That is an excellent reason for not offering assistance, but 
none for refusing it. One hears every day of persons making 
donations to perfect strangers, but I never yet heard of them 
being refused.” 

“ I am not in a position to receive charity,” said Lady Betty, 
rather sharply. 

A proverb about beggars on horseback crossed Mrs. Walker’s 
mind, but as she looked at her friend’s young face and graceful 
figure, she was yet inclined to be hopeful, so she kept the reflec- 
tion to herself, and said : 

“ ’Tis a mercy you have good looks ; with them and a little 
finesse you may manage to find a wealthy husband before the 
end of the season.” 

“ Oh, Felicia ! how can you for a moment think I could 
descend to such a baseness P ” 

“ I see nothing base in marrying a wealthy husband.” Mrs. 
Walker had married an old man for no better motive than the 
prospect of inheriting his riches. “It seems to me, Lady 
Betty, that poverty has exalted your sentiments to a pro- 
digious extent, which is unfortunate, since, if there is one thing 
more than another that the poor cannot afford, and ought to 
get rid of, ’tis pride.” 

“ On the contrary, I think ’tis the one thing they must retain 
to deserve respect.” 

Lady Betty spoke with warmth, and would probably have 
said much more, but that she was checked by the remembrance 
of Felicia’s previous kindness, and a suspicion that she did not 
mean what she said. 

“ Then what on earth do you intend doing ? ” 

“ I have not yet had time to determine. Come, Felicia, be 
your natural self. We are alone, and worldliness is a mask 
that you put on to suit the cynical humour which is in 
fashion. Forget that you are Mrs. Walker, and advise me as 
Felicia.” 

“I have given my advice, and been accused of suggesting 
baseness,” responded Felicia coldly. 

“ You spoke under irritation.” 

“Not at all. I shall be glad to alter my views if you can 
show better. Tell me your ideas, and I shall be happy to 
assist you ” 

“ I know you will, Felicia.” 

“ With any suggestions that may occur to me,” Mrs. Walker 
said, concluding her broken sentence. 

“ In the first place the furniture and china in Park Lane 
will have to be sold.” 


GERARD TALBOT, 




“ Sell your furniture ! Why all the world would know it in 
twenty-four hours, and what excuse can you make ? ” 

“ The necessity of paying my mother’s debts and my own.” 

If Lady Betty had proposed escaping her creditors by means 
of the Messieurs Mongolfier’s balloon, the notion would not 
have appeared more preposterous or wildly suicidal to Mrs. 
Walker. 

“ Go on, my love,” she said, with forced calmness. 

“I do not know how much I shall realise by the sale, and I 
cannot tell the extent of my debts, but I think I shall have 
more than a hundred pounds when all is settled. I must try 
and get the matter arranged before I leave London.” 

“ A. hundred pounds, and rent and living at the Wells so 
expensive. Why, after your dress and journey are paid for, 
you won’t have enough to keep you there six weeks.” 

Lady Betty had understood that she was to be Felicia’s guest 
during their stay at the waters. She was not displeased to find 
herself in error ; the necessity of keeping up a false position 
was obviated. 

“ Then I had better not go,” she said, quietly. 

“ I am entirely of your opinion. If you absolutely insist 
upon this sale taking place at once you would find it impossible 
to attend the assemblies, no one would acknowledge you.” 

The announcement of a visitor put an end to the conversa- 
tion, much to the satisfaction of both. Lady Betty retired to 
her room to shed a few tears over the defection of her friend, 
and make plans for immediate action ; while she was still in 
cogitation a maid brought a packet and placed it in her hands 
with her mistress’s compliments. The packet contained the 
tradespeople’s bills, which Mrs. Walker had not calculated upon 
finding in less than a month’s search. 


CHAPTER XL VI. 

GERARD TALBOT. 

Doctor Blandly sought Gerard. Leaving Lincoln’s Inn he 
stepped into a hackney coach and instructed the driver to carry 
him to Brooks’, in St. James’s Street, that being, as he took 
it, the most likely place in which to find him. 

“Mr. Crewe isn’t here, Sir,” said the hall-keeper; “think he 
must have left town, Sir.” 

“ That is not likely, my good man,” replied Doctor Blandly, 
“for he was yesterday in Lincoln’s Inn.” 


220 


LLerUT-ENANT BARNABAS, 


“Indeed, Sir, that’s particularly odd, Sir, for he wasn’t here 
last night, nor hasn’t been for ten days, and a mortal number 
of members has been asking after him.” 

“ I suppose a gentleman may be in London without of 
necessity coming to this house ? ” 

“ Some gentleman may, Sir, but Mr. Crewe is one of them 
as can’t. I’ve never known him to stay away two nights run- 
ning — except when the season’s done.” 

Doctor Blandly returned to his coach and gave the address 
at which he had met Gerard a fortnight before. 

“ Is Mr. Gerard Crewe at home ? ” he asked of the servant 
who opened the door. 

The servant fetched a card from the drawer of a table in the 
passage, and putting it in the Doctor’s hands, said : 

“ Left here a se’nnight last Saturday. That is his new 
address.” 

Once more Doctor Blandly returned to his conch, and, 
reading the card, told the man to drive him to Cheyne Walk, 
Chelsea. Stopping before the number indicated, the Doctor 
looked several times from the house to the card in his hand 
before he could feel sure that no mistake had been made. The 
place was dingy and poor, as unlike Gerard’s previous dwelling- 
place as possible. 

In answer to his hesitating knock a slatternly girl opened 
the door, and replying to his inquiry told him to walk up to 
the second floor, where he would find Mr. Crewe, and warned 
him to be careful he didn’t fall over the breakfast-tray outside 
the first floor’s door. 

“ The luck has turned,” said the Doctor, as he ascended the 
steep and narrow stairs. 

He knocked; Gerard called “ Come in ; ” the Doctor opened 
the door and stood for a minute unobserved, taking in all that 
met his eye. It was a small room, one quarter occupied by a 
four-post bedstead, with two strips of carpet upon the floor. 
The furniture consisted of three rush-bottomed chairs, a wash- 
stand, a chest of drawers, a hangingshelf of books, and a table. 
The window was open. On the sill stood a long ale glass, 
with a couple of clove-pinks in it — the only gracious thing 
there. The table was set before the window, and Gerard sat 
at it, with his back to the door. His chin rested on his left 
hand; his elbow on tli3 table; in his right hand was a pen; 
on the table, and at his feet, paper. 

Doctor Blandly drew out his snuff-box mechanically, and 
tapped it, keeping his eye on the figure before 2lim. At the 
sound Gerard turned. 


GERARD TALBOT. 


221 


M Ibeg your pardon, Doctor Blandly,” lie said, rising-; “I 
thought it was my man — I should say, the maid of the house. 
Be seated, Sir.” 

He placed a chair to face the window with a nervous glance 
round the room. Doctor Blandly sat down and slowly took 
his pinch of snuff. 

“ Do you snuff, Mr. Talbot ? ” he asked, extending the box. 

A faint flush of colour passed over Gerard’s face in being 
addressed by his father’s name. 

“ Occasionally,” he answered, taking from the proffered box 
and bowing. 

“ ’ Tis a boon not to be neglected, Sir. It refreshes the senses 
and invigorates the mind.” 

“Is that a recognised fact P” Gerard asked with more anxiety 
in his tone than the subject seemed to demand. 

“ It is, Sir — amongst snuff-takers. Perhaps for a young man 
fresh air and exercise are as effective. Clove-pinks — and very 
good clove-pinks too,” said the Doctor, looking at the flowers, 
then taking the glass in his hand and examining them more 
closely, he added — “for London. You are fond of flowers, 
Sir.” 

“ Who is not P ” 

“ A great many people. People without hearts don’t care 
for them, though let me tell you that your father did not care for 
them, albeit he had a heart as tender as a child’s. By living so 
long on the sea he relished no colour but blue, and no savour 
but pitch and saltpetre.” The Doctor smelt at the flowers, 
and said in a tone of encouraging admiration, “ Very goad 
clove-pinks. 1 would have you come and see some that I 
grow at Edmonton. They smell sweetest of evenings and 
early morning ; you would give me great pleasure, Sir, to visit 
me and eat of a fine haunch of mutton that I stuck a skewer 
into at my butcher’s this morning. I shall have it cooked o’ 
Sunday, if the day wall suit you.” 

“ The pleasure will be mine,” said Gerard. 

u Pleasures are best when shared, Sir. Very good clove- 
pinks, indeed. Will you put them back in their place? Thank 
you. You have an agreeable view of the river from this 
window.” 

“ It compensates the luxuries that you see I possess no longer 
— or it should. I own I find it difficult at times to reconcile 
myself to poverty.” 

“ It is hard indeed to change at once the habits that have 
slowly grown upon us — ’tis like the transplanting of a shrub 
wnose roots and fibres have had time to permeate the surround- 


222 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


in g soil; for awhile it droops and languishes, its bruised 
fibres lacking- the power to assimilate the strengthening juices 
of the earth ; but anon, Sir, you shall find it strike out with 
lusty vigour, and flourish with a new and stronger life — 
especially if the soil be richer.” 

“ Some plants will not bear transplanting, I believe, Doctor.” 

u ’ Tis true, Sir, but there are, thank God, not many such of 
English growth — few indeed, so sappy or so sapless that they 
will not thrive the better by discreet removal to purer and 
more wholesome conditions of existence.” 

“ Shall I be wrong in taking the personal application of your 
remarks to myself ? ” 

“ Certainly not, if the conclusions I draw from what I see 
are correct.” 

“ May I ask you to tell me what those conclusions are ? ” 

“ You have turned your back on the gaming-house, and in- 
tend never to return to it — as a gamester.” 

Gerard listened gravely, and in silence fetched a chair and 
seated himself by the table opposite his visitor. He looked 
out upon the river dreamily, and at length, ending his medi- 
tation with a sigh, turned to Doctor Blandly, and said : 

“I am afraid you give me credit for more virtue than I 
have, Doctor. You do not know that I left the table of 
necessity.” 

“ You owe nothing, surely.” 

" No ; but my ability to gain is gone.” 

“ You cannot, believe in luck to such an extent.” 

“I never trusted to chance at all. ’ Twas that which made 
me successful. Whilst others were alternately elated and de- 
pressed, my temper never varied, and the advantage on my 
side were enormous. I do not think I am cold by nature ” 

“ I am sure you are not,” interpellated Doctor Blandly.” 

“ But the circumstances of my life — above all the absence of 
hope, chilled my blood. I saw nothing in the world to wish 
for but its luxuries — things that could be bought with money. 
I knew no friends, no relatives save the villainous foot-pad who 
called himself my brother, and I owed my position to anony- 
mous charity. With these trammels I could not hope to rise 
to any state better than that I held. I satisfied my conscience 
by punctilious honesty in my dealings at the table, and my only 
ambition by paying back all I had received from you.” 

“And I wish with all my heart you had kept it.” 

“ Had I never met my brother Tom, I should still be a game- 
ster; but the faculty of centring my whole thought upon the 
cards, of maintaining a perfect equanimity under all conditions 


GERARD TALBOT. 


223 


was weakened on the day he first gave me his hand in friend- 
ship ; it was destroyed the moment you told me of our relation- 
ship. The old fetters were removed, and a new field of hopes 
and aspirations was opened to me. An intense desire to win a 
sum of money that would enable me to leave the gaming-table, 
and learn a profession, seized me and ” 

“ You lost,” said Doctor Blandly, completing the sentence 
which Gerard had terminated with a shrug. “ And a very 
good job too, Sir. Let me tell you I should be very sorry to 
see dice on a field vert quartered in the Talbot coat. I should 
have been better pleased to hear that you relinquished gaming 
for the honour of your father’s name.” 

“ 1 am a faulty man and not a hero of romance, Doctor 
Blandly.” 

“ True, Sir, true. The only difference between you is that you 
avow the truth, where t’other would be careful to conceal it, and 
so I give you the preference and my hand, if you will taku 

it.” 

Gerard gave his hand quickly, and the Doctor grasped it, 
and held it for a full minute. The wrinkling of his brows 
showed that his thoughts were busy. 

“ And so you think of entering a profession with a view to 
gaining money,” he said. 

“ I am making my first attempt,” replied Gerard, with a 
motion of his hand towards the paper on the table. 

“Letters — you have chosen a profession that requires no 
tedious apprenticeship, like the law or physic. All that you 
require is patience, a pot of ink— and genius.” 

“I have the pot of ink,” said Gerard, with a laugh. 

“ And what branch of writing do you affect, Sir P ” 

“I have begun a comedy.” 

“ I am told it is difficult to get a comedy read.” 

“ I have friends at both houses, and Mr. Kemble has pro- 
mised me assistance.” 

“ Your mother had excellent dramatic talent, poor soul ! 
A work of this kind should of necessity take a long time to 
complete, Mr. Talbot.” 

“ I am making but slow progress at present.” 

Gerard gave a rueful glance at the scattered sheets of erased 
work, and the few approved lines. 

“Do not hurry it, Sir, for the sake of the remuneration you 
will get by its production. Nature sets us the example of 
working slowly ; nothing that is to last can be done quickly. 
If you want money I will lend it to you, and you can give no 
better proof of your friendship than by accepting my service.” 


224 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


“ I shall not hesitate to ask you for a loan when I actually 
need it, Doctor.” 

“ Unfortunately, ’tis the only kind of assistance I can render 
you, for I lack the imaginative faculty, and I do not profess to 
have the critical acumen. In physic I might have served you 
better, but before a fine picture or a good comedy I can only 
hold up my hands in astonishment and admiration, wondering 
how the work was done.” 

“ Nevertheless, your opinion and advice would be of service 
to me. I protest 1 do not know whether my work is good or 
bad. I write and re-write again and again, and in the end can- 
not tell whether the first expression of my thought is better 
or worse than the last.” 

(i ’ Tis the diffidence of merit. Only a fool is satisfied with 
his work, and for him improvement is impossible. When I 
was a young man, a friend of mine took his first work to Doctor 
Johnson, and asked him to point out any faults he could find 
in it. ‘ Sir/ says Doctor Johnson, ( ’twill save time to clap the 
tract on the fire at once, for if you cannot find oat the faults 
for yourself, ’tis because the parts are all faulty alike.’ ” 

“ Put your manuscript in your pocket and bring it with you 
on Sunday, Mr. Talbot. You shall read it to me, and have 
my honest opinion on its merits. I shall judge, not as a critic 
who hopes to find fault for the exercise of his malicious 
wit, but as one who takes his place in the pit hoping to be 
amused.” 

“I wish I had only your judgment to fear. Unfortunately 
’tis the critic and not the audience who decides the fate of a 
piay.” 

“ Well, Sir, you shall have both. I have a friend in holy 
orders who shall join us at dinner. He is a man of reading, 
and preaches excellent sermons, so I am told ; I have contracted 
a vicious habit of sleeping after the Psalms, which prevents me 
from judging for myself. And now to turn to a sadder subject.” 
The Doctor took a pinch of snuff and then said : “ You were 
at Lincoln’s Inn yesterday, I hear.” 

“No news of my poor brother Tom had been heard? ” 

“ None. I was there this morning, and, as you may suppose 
by my silence, nothing has been heard since your visit respect- 
ing your brother Tom. As regards Barnabas Crewe ; hitherto 
he has been represented by a Newgate pettifogger, yesterday 
he made his appearance at Talbot Hall in person, with his 
lawyer and half-a-dozen sturdy rogues, who overcame the 
resistance of the steward and servants, entered the Hall, and there 
they stay until it is proved that Theophilus Talbot is not the 


GERARD TALBOT. 


225 


heir. The news was sent this morning’ by Blake, the steward, 
who still occupies the lodge and waits for instructions.” 

“ Barnabas must not be allowed to stay there.” 

“ Not a day, Sir, when we can find the means of turning him 
out. Possession is nine points of the law with such a man 
as that, and he has a cunning rascal for a lawyer, who, I am 
afraid, is more than a match for us. He has evidence on his 
side which we could not overthrow. I might swear that he is 
Barnabas Crewe until I am black in the face, but at the same 
time, I must acknowledge that he is identical with the child 
entered in the parish register as Theophilus Talbot. We have 
not a single proof that your mother was enceinte at the time of 
her marriage ; there is no proof but my words that your father 
disowned the child. I have only your mother’s last words and 
my own conviction that she was true to your father after her 
marriage, and that you were his legitimate offspring, which 
would go for nothing in a court of law. Barnabas is to all 
effect your brother Tom’s heir-at-law.” 

“ Is it impossible to find anyone who knew my mother at the 
time of her marriage ? ” 

“ Your father removed her from her friends in London, 
thirty years, or nearly thirty years, since. What possibility is 
there P ” 

“ But little indeed ; and yet, from whom did Barnabas get 
his information ? Not from me, certainly, not from you. ■ How 
could he know the facts which his lawyer has produced except 
by communicating with one who was intimately acquainted with 
my father or mother. Depend upon it there is a third person 
whose existence we have ignored.” 

The Doctor buried his chin in his hand. 

“I can think of no one but his own father,” he said, raising 
his head. “They may have been thrown together by accident ; 
but we could expect no assistance from him, since his own 
interest w r ould lead him to support his son’s claim.” 

“ That makes the case more desperate. Are we to suffer my 
father’s estate to fall into the hands of these two scoundrels ? 
Would not their very looks convict them if they stood before a 
judge ? ” 

“ Not if blushes were needed as a proof of guilt. I am strongly 
opposed to making this misfortune public, though if you wish 
it 1 will give you all the support in my power. In the first 
place, it could not result in benefit to you.” 

“ You do not think I have any motive but the honour of my 
family ? ” 

“No, and that is a reason for avoiding publicity. If you 

15 


226 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


failed to prove your case, Barnabas would be recognised as 
legitimate, and the line of the Talbots would include a wretch 
whom we know to be a highwayman, whom I suspect to be a 
murderer.” 

“ Great Heavens ! do you suspect him of murdering Tom ? ” 

“ Who else could have so strong a motive, if, as we suppose, 
he knew beforehand of the relationship between them P ” 

“ You think that Barnabas murdered Tom ? ” asked Gerard, 
coldly. 

“ I do,” the Doctor replied, thinking only of the evidence. 

The blood rushed into Gerard’s face, and he dropped his face 
into his hands. 

“ My mother’s son,” he said, with a groan. 

“ What have I said P ” the Doctor cried, springing to his feet. 
“ Pardon me, my boy. I can think of you only as Toni’s 
brother. Don’t take my words to heart. ’Twas an idle 
suspicion that escaped me in an unguarded moment.” 

“ No idle suspicion,” Gerard said, dropping his hands between 
his knees, without raisingliis head. " ’Tis a fact which I should 
have suspected, but that the crime was too horrible to attribute 
to my brother. Barnabas a murderer — ’twas shame enough to 
know him as a thief. My brother a murderer — ’tis an encourag- 
ing reflection to begin the new life with — a passport to decent 
society— an advantage which critics would not fail to mention 
amongst the merits of my work — a charm to win the affections 
of a cultured girl.” 

“And a stimulant to courage, Gerard,” added the Doctor. 
“ So that you are free from blame, why should you heed pre- 
judice. Your father was best pleased when the sea was 
crowded with enemies, for there was the greatest prospect of 
glory for his King. Let your conscience be your king ; fight 
a good fight for its honour, and never fear wliat may happen. 
The good opinion of four honest men — nay, your own satisfac- 
toin alone — outweighs a thousand times the flattery of a crowd 
of fools.” 

“Can we do nothing to free my father’s name from the dis- 
grace that this scoundrel throws upon it P If he got into the 
Hall with the aid of a dozen men, can’t we turn him out with 
the aid of a dozen more ? ” 

“ A useless game of Crambo that we should lose by. No. 
Take my advice — leave him alone. His own actions will prove 
to all thinking people that he is not your father’s son, but a 
rascally impostor. He will be shunned by everyone ; and his 
life at Talbot Hall will not be too cheerful, I engage. I have 
a flea for his ear that will make him heartily repent his 


THE TAMING OF MES. BAXTER. 


227 


knavery. I am heartily mistaken if before the end of twelve 
months he does not offer to make a public renunciation of hii 
rights for a few hundred pounds down.” 

“ What power have you P He has the Hall.” 

“ And I have the money.” The Doctor took out his snuff- 
box, and gave it a tap of satisfaction. “ And rather than let 
a penny of it go into his hands, I’ll squander it all in the Court 
of Chancery. He can’t pay his expenses, and his lawyer will 
not undertake a game at which he must in the end lose. He 
may kill a few head of deer, and shoot as much game as he 
likes — let him. There will still be enough for us to celebrate 
his departure when his time comes. He may empty the cellar 
and probably will in a few weeks — let him, again I say. 
Thank heaven there’s a cave full of port and Burgundy that is 
known to no one but me — now that poor Tom’s gone. As for 
the rents of the property, my man in Lincoln’s Inn will get an 
injunction to stop him from receiving a mag. He shan’t cut a 
single one of those blessed old oaks in the park. Without 
money he will get no one to serve him ; without wine he will 
get no one, not even his fellow rogues, to visit him. He won’t 
L'e able to get powder and shot to kill his own game — take a 
pinch, Mr. Talbot — and if he can sleep alone in that empty 
Hall, with no liquor to stupefy his senses, he is not the man I 
take him to be. Twelve months — why I won’t give him six 
months lease of his ill-gotten home. We shall have him 
whining at our feet for mercy and pardon before Christmas is 
upon us, Sir.” 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

THE TAMING OF MRS. BAXTER. 

** Park Lane, August i, 1800. 

“ Dear Doctor Blandly, 

“ I should be wanting in due appreciation of your kind- 
ness if I failed to ask your guidance through the difficulty 
which besets me at the present moment. With the permission 
of Mrs. Walker, I have abandoned my intention of spending a 
season at the Wells, and I wish to arrange my pecuniary affairs, 
and enter upon those duties which my altered position necessi- 
tates at once. I have collected my dear mother’s bills, and 
find that my liabilities amount to the sum of four hundred and 
seventy pounds seventeen shillings ; this with the sum owing 
to Mr. Moss readies a total of seven hundred and seventy 

15—2 


228 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


pounds seventeen shillings. I have in my purse nearly one 
hundred and ninety-seventy pounds, and that with the proceeds 
arising from the sale of the furniture, See., in the house will be, 
I hope, more than sufficient to pay all I owe, including the rent 
of the house. 

“But I do not know any gentleman in the auctioneering 
trade, and so I ask you to tell me what course I shall take for 
the disposal of the china and things. I have had everything 
well brushed and polished, and save my clothes and a work-box. 
which was poor dear mamma’s, all packed in two trunks, and 
an elbow-chair which is set aside in the garret, everything is 
ready to be sold, and may be seen by applying to me, or to the 
person in charge of the house if I am absent. 

“ With sincere gratitude for your goodness to me and my 
poor mother, 

u I am, dear Doctor Blandly, 

“ Obediently yours, 

“ Elizabeth St. Cyr.” 

Doctor Blandly read this letter, which he found beside the 
“ Times ” newspaper on his table when he came in from making 
the tour of his garden, which was his custom, in fair or foul 
weather, before sitting down to his breakfast. 

“A very good letter and well writ,” he said holding the 
sheet at arm’s length, and looking at the even lines and bold 
characters with a kindly critical eye. “Neatly folded, well 
expressed and every line of it the unstudied product of a clear 
and healthy mind — so I take it.” He read it again, comment- 
ing as he went. “ Beset with difficulties — aye, aye, you have 
need of a pilot, poor child — thrown like a frail skiff into the 
hurrying current of the work-a-day world, where be abundance 
of hard rocks and few placid pools! .... So Mrs. Walker 
has permitted you to go your own way. One understands that. 
’Tis well for jou, Miss Betty, though I wager your heart ached 
to find her so fickle a friend .... Duties — duties ? Ha, yes, 

the duty of living frugally upon her slender means 

She’s more anxious to discharge her debts than to make a 
profit for herself — a good girl. .... Don’t know any gentleman 
in the auctioneering trade — no, nor I, my dear ; nevertheless 
we must content ourselves with such as we have. .' . . . Two 
trunks and an elbow -chair set aside in the garret — a chair too 
old to sell perhaps ; and is that all the furniture she reserves for 
her new home. Everything ready to be sold — that means much 
— the selling of all that is dear by usage and familiarity, yet not 
a word of the pain it costs to part with them. I can fancy the 


THE TAMING OF MRS. BAXTER. 


229 


child polishing those trifles for the last time, and bravely 
staunching her tears the while. ’Tis a brave girl — and her 
brief, clear letter is more touching than if it were filled with 
regrets and blotted with tears — a good, brave girl.” 

Doctor Blandly laid down the letter and took up the “ Times,” 
as if to divert his thoughts from the subject until he could 
think of it with less emotion. As his eyes wandered down the 
columns of the paper they fell upon this advertisement : 

“ A Young Lady desires an engagement in a family or 
school, to teach young children. — Address, Miss St. Cyr, Park 
Lane, London.” 

“ What,” he cried, “ she is prepared to work for a livelihood, 
and submit to the tyranny of a jealous mother, or a grasping 
school-mistress, for a pittance scarcely sufficient to buy clothes 
to her back, rather than accept my protection and help ! By 
George, she’s a trump of a girl ! ” 

He sat in cogitation for some time, looking now at the letter 
and then at the advertisement, and again at his slowly twid- 
dling thumbs. Finally he rose from his seat and rang the 
bell. 

“ Bring me my Sunday coat and shoes, Jerry,” said he, when 
the old servant appeared. 

“ Your Sunday coat and shoes, or your fishing coat and 
shoes, Sir? ” 

“ Do I look as if I were going a-fishing ? ” 

Jerry looked in his master’s face, and finding not a particle 
of pleasure in its expression, withdrew without asking for 
further confirmation. 

Doctor Blandly walked over to the Vicarage. 

A pastor in a garden, surrounded by his children, ought , to 
be a subject worthy of a painter, but the Reverend John Baxter, 
under similar conditions, was a subject deserving rather the 
practical sympathy of the philanthropist. Jane, his youngest 
daughter, was cutting her teeth, and had to be nursed; little 
Anne was quietly making herself ill, and staining her clean 
bib, with mulberries ; and the two boys, in open rebellion 
against their father, refused to study their primer, and dodged 
him among the gooseberry bushes when he sought to bring 
them to obedience. The weather was sultry, the Reverend 
John Baxter was stout, and more than once in his pursuit the 
straggling branches of the prickly gooseberry laid hold of his 
ungaitered legs, causing him to stumble violently, to the mortal 
■jeopardy of the screaming babe in his arms. It was just as he 
tad relinquished the chase for a minute to go and tear little 
Anns away from the mulberries that he caught sight of Doctor 


230 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


Blandly od the other side of the privet hedge, making his waj 
towards the vicarage. 

Abandoning his child in the greater danger which awaited 
his friend, Mr. Baxter moved towards the privet hedge to 
warn his friend off, but Doctor Blandly was already in the 
garden, and close to the door of the house. In vain he 
waved his arm as a signal to retreat, and shaped with his mouth 
the words, “ Don’t ; for the love of heaven, don’t ! She's at 
home!” The Doctor was deep in thought, and never averted 
his eye from the path before him until he had knocked at the 
door of the Vicarage. 

Mrs. Baxter herself opened the door. She had a pen in her 
hand, and a tart expression on her face. 

“ You have come to see Mr. Baxter, I presume,” said the 
lady, frigidly. 

“ No, madam, I have come to see you. If you can give me 
five minutes’ attention I will explain my business.” 

“ Business ! Baxter has not told me a word of it.” 

“ Baxter did not know, madam : so ’twas not his fault that 
you did not know, nor yours neither,” he added, in an 
undertone. 

Mrs. Baxter led the Doctor into a grim chamber, where a 
number of parochial books and papers showed that she was 
managing her husband’s business. 

Doctor Blandly seated himself on an angular, narrow chair, 
with a slipping horse-hair seat, and came to the point without 
waste of time. 

“Mrs. Baxter,” said he, “I hear you have lost your 
governess.” 

“ I sent her away at a minute’s notice for impertinence.” 

“ Poor soul ! ” 

“ Oh, of course, you pity her, Doctor Blandly.” 

“On the contrary, ma’am, ’tis you that I pity. The young 
woman has, in all probability, found another engagement more 
suitable to her disposition, whereas you are still without a 
governess for your children, which must of necessity give you 
less time to devote to your husband’s affairs. Will you be 
good enough to look at this advertisement, which I have cut 
from the 1 Times ’ newspaper of this morning.” 

Mrs. Baxter took the cutting, and drawing down the corners 
of her thin lips in anticipation, read it through. 

“ I see nothing attractive in that” she remarked ; “ a young 
lady wishes for an engagement. Governesses are coming to 
something indeed! Young person would have been more 
respectful. Not a word about accomplishments.” 


THE TAMING OF MRS. BAXTER. 


23 ] 


" She possibly thought it unnecessary to talk of accomplish- 
ments, as she wishes to teach young children.” 

“ Ah, that again — her wish to teach young children is an 
evidence of incapacity.” 

“ Had she advertised to teach elder children, I should not 
have thought it worth while to show you the advertisement.” 

“ Miss St. Cyr. I should have thought initials, or her 
Christian name alone, more appropriate. She does not mention 
the name of her mistress, which is, in my opinion, a flagrant 
outrage upon propriety, as the lady lives in Park Lane.” 

“ Miss St. Cyr has no mistress, and the address given is her 
own house.” 

“ Impossible I ” 

u Not at all. She is an orphan, and the whole of her fortune 
was lost through an unfortunate investment which I made 
with her mother’s capital shortly before her death, which 
happened in May last.” 

u I have not heard a word of this from Baxter.” 

“ For certain reasons, madam, I do not tell Baxter all that I 
do and know.” 

Mrs. Baxter read the advertisement again, and her lips instead 
of being drawn down towards her chin, were now stretched 
back in a horizontal line towards her ears. 

“ Her modesty is certainly becoming,” she said, “ and ’twould 
be a great advantage for Samuel and Luke to be instructed by 
a refined young lady. Under their father’s training they have 
grown so violent that I find it difficult myself io command 
respect. Little Anne can walk alone, and ’tis high time she 
learnt a hymn, and Jane is very fractious of nights.” 

“ If you read the advertisement again, you will see that 
Miss St. Cyr does not undertake to do the work of a nurse.” 

Mrs. Baxter drew up her mobile lips into the resemblance 
of a bladder-neck at this reminder, and then shaking her head 
said: 

“ I do not as a rule employ unfortunate people ; they are 
generally undeserving, and frequently expect indulgence, in- 
stead of showing that active anxiety to give satisfaction 
which their humbled condition should prompt. Still, they 
are more ready to accept moderate terms of remuneration than 
people of greater experience.” 

“ As concerns remuneration, Mrs. Baxter, I have a suggestion 
to make, which I hope will not be unacceptable. I wish you 
to give Miss St. Cyr whatever terms she asks without abatement, 
and in addition, I wish her to be provided with all the comforts 
you would offer her were the young lady merely a guest in 


232 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


your house. If a nursemaid to soothe the temper of youi 
infant will make the house more agreeable as a home to the 
young lady, by all means engage a nursemaid. Whatever 
expenses these alterations in your establishment may oblige, I 
will discharge, on the condition that the financial arrangement 
shall be absolutely a secret between you and me.” 

“ Oh, of course, Doctor Blandly. But I really do not know 

how to ” Mrs. Baxter hesitated, but a greedy hungriness 

overspread her face, and showed that she was well-disposed to 
receive the Doctor’s proposal. 

“ You shall reckon up your expenses at the end of each week 
or month as you choose, and I will pay them without asking 
any questions .” 

Mrs. Baxter’s stony eyes fell, and she stroked her nose with 
the end of her pen in some confusion ; but the prize was too 
good to be sacrificed to modesty. 

“ If ’tis an act of charity, Doctor ” 

“ No ’tis no charity, but simply a very poor restitution on 
my part.” 

“ In that case I need not hesitate. I will write at once, 
though T’m afraid I have nothing but business paper. 1 
promise the young lady shall be treated with all due consider- 
ation and attention.” 

“Very well, madam,” said Doctor Blandly, rising ; “ and so 
long as she is satisfied to stay with you, I will provide funds.” 

With a few more words Doctor Blandly closed the interview, 
and then left the Vicarage. Mrs. Baxter at once wrote a note 
requesting the pleasure of an interview with Miss St. Cyr, 
at her “ earliest convenience,” and despatched the sexton on 
the Reverend John Baxter’s cob, with instructions to give the 
note into Miss St. Cyr’s own hand. Doctor Blandly also 
wrote to Lady Betty, expressing his approval of the deter- 
mination she had come to, and informing her that his lawyer 
in Lincoln’s Inn would wait upon her, and make all necessary 
arrangements for the sale of her furniture, and the payment 
of her debts. 


CHAPTER XL VIII. 
lady betty’s visit. 

On the Monday following, about three o’clock in the after- 
noon, Lady Betty stood at the gate of Dr. Blandly’s garden. 
Jerry had instructions to admit without delay a young 


LADY BETTY’S VISIT. 


233 


lady dressed in black, whenever she came, and to tree t her 
with as much respect as if she were a gentleman; so he 
answered her question with a low bow, saying in his most 
polite tones, that Doctor Blandly was at home, and begged her 
to follow him. 

Lady Betty passed through the wicket by the side of the 
house, and coming upon a full view of the garden, which was 
ablaze with free growing annuals, geraniums, fuchsias and 
hollyhocks, she stopped for a moment while her being seemed 
to expand as she imbibed the delicious colour and fragrance 
around her. It was the first time she had stood in a garden 
since the pleasant days atWinchmore, nearly a year ago. Her 
heart wept and smiled, as happy memories and sad passed 
through her mind. 

“ Oh, if I could only hope,” she sighed, “ or if I might lay 
aside my mourning clothes, and wear light muslin, and sit in 
the shade watching the bees, and feasting my senses like them, 
without regret — with nothing but lazy indifference ! ” 

“If you please, miss,” said Jerry, coming back to her side 
across the lawn, treading the gravel on the points of his toes, 
and speaking in a whisper, “ master is asleep.” He pointed 
over the flower-beds to the apple-tree in the middle of the 
lawn, under which the Doctor sat. 

“ I will walk about the garden until he wakes,” said Lady 
Betty. 

“ Thank you, miss ; the weather’s so hot, and he do like his 
doze after lunch to that extent, that I can’t abear to wake him. 
Cali I bring you anything, miss ? A bottle of claret, now — ■ 
the port I shouldn’t recommend before dinner.” 

“ No, thank you. If I want refreshment I will find some 
fruit.” 

Jerry scratched his ear, and said with more hesitation — 

“ Master wouldn’t begrudge the best wine there is in the 
cellar, but he’s that perticlar about his wall-fruit, that I daren’t 
so much as pick up a dropped plum when it’s green.” 

“ I will spare the wall-fruit,” Lady Betty said, smiling. 

With many thanks for her consideration, and as many bows, 
old Jerry retired to the cellar, where he had bottling on hand ; 
and Lady Betty, taking the shady path, walked slowly down 
the garden, stooping now and then to pick the flowers which 
were her favourites. After awhile she crossed the lawn to the 
apple-tree, and sat upon the seat which surrounded it. Doctor 
Blandly was not upon this seat, but comfortably settled in his 
cushioned W indsor-chair. He wore a pair of nankeen-breeches, 
thin stockings, and a coat and waistcoat of white jean ; his 


234 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


head and face were veiled with the yellow India handkerchief. 
His feet were crossed, and his hands were folded in his lap ; a 
table was at his right hand, on which were disposed an ale 
glass, a long clay pipe, a pruning knife, and a volume of 
Cowper’s poems. These things told the character of the man. 

Lady Betty sat arranging the flowers she had gathered, con- 
tent with her occupation and an occasional look at the blue 
sky through the foliage of the apple-tree, and the coloured beds 
that skirted the lawn. Presently the doctor drew a long 
breath, knitted his finger-tips and slowly twiddled his thumbs. 
Then in a low voice he sang : 

44 This little old ’oman, so I’ve heered tell, 

She went to market her eggs for to sell 
Singing, tol de rol, de rol, and a hi tol de rol.” 

Lady Betty gave the softest “ ahem ! ” Doctor Blandly pulled 
down his handkerchief. 

“ Bless my soul, Miss Betty I ” he cried, catching sight of the 
young lady before him, who, with a little smile on her pretty 
pale face, and her head on one side, was regarding the bouquet 
she had made. “ Why didn’t that fool of a Jerry wake me ? ” 

“ Because he is a good servant, and fond of his master. I. 
have not been here long, and not a moment has seemed too 
long.” 

“ You are tired with your journey. Dear heart ! to think I 
should be asleep ! Jerry 1 ” 

“ I am not at all tired. I have only walked from the Vicar- 
age, where Mrs. Baxter insisted upon my taking lunch.” 

“ The Vicarage ! ” exclaimed Doctor Blandly, with feigned 
surprise, at the same time stooping to pick up his straw hat 
and conceal the expression on his face. “ Now what on earth 
could have taken you there, Miss Betty P ” 

u Mrs. Baxter saw an advertisement I had printed in the 
‘ Times ’ newspaper, and wrote to me on Friday to engage me 
as a governess for her children.” 

“ Lord, ah ! Baxter said something about his wife losing her 
governess, now I come to think of it. But what a strange 
coincidence that she should write to you. I give you my word 
I never mentioned your name to him. Well, my dear, I hope 
you have accepted the engagement, for then you will have one 
friend to come to see now and then.” 

“ I have accepted, and I think I shall begin the new life on 
Saturday next.” 

“ I’m downright glad to hear it. Mrs. Baxter and I don’t 


LADY BETTY’S VISIT. 


235 


get on well together, hut that is an advantage in one respect ; 
when you want to escape from her you can come here without 
fear of being followed. Baxter’s a good, soft, stupid old soul, 
you’ll like him.” He took his pruning-knife, and rising from 
his chair, said, with a look of much promise, “ Come with me, 
my dear.” He gave her his hand to rise, and held it in his as 
they walked slowly over the lawn towards the sunny wall. 

“ You’re a brave girl,” he said to her, in a low, emphatic 
tone, “ a good brave girl ! Your sorrows have come early, but 
if we must love and lose, ’tis better to suffer while the heart is 
young and vigorous. Buds nipped in the spring are not missed 
in the summer, but nothing replaces the autumn loss, and the 
old stock may not bear another bloom.” 

Lady Betty glanced at the Doctor’s face, and her eyes filled 
with tears, not for herself, but for him. The tone of his voice, 
the far-away look in his face, told her that it was not a mere 
sentimental generality he had uttered, but the summary of his 
own experience. She held his hand a little tighter, and did 
not break the reverie into which he seemed to have fallen. 
She would have been content to walk in silence for an indefinite 
time, united by hand and heart in a bond of sympathy, but 
they came face to face with the peaches, and Doctor Blandly’s 
thoughts returned from the past to the present, from the passion 
that was dead to the love that lived. 

“ There’s a jolly fellow ! ” said he, turning back a leaf to ex- 
pose a velvety fruit ; “ but he will be better to cut to-morrow 
about eleven, another afternoon’s sun, and the mellowing in- 
fluence of the night air, is wanted to make him perfect. Now 
down here there’s a chap that I ought to have culled this 
morning, but I couldn’t, he looked so comfortable and happy.” 
He led the way down the path, still holding Lady Betty by the 
hand, towards the “chap” in question; but he stopped to 
gently lift a peach from the naked brick to the tenderer surface 
of a leaf, saying as he did so: “Ha! ha! my boy! you will 
rub your cheek against that wall, will you ?” 

When they came to the ripe favourite, he paused for a 
minute or two to point out its excellent points to Lady Betty, 
and then planting one foot on the path and the other across 
the bed against the wall, he opened his knife and cut it from 
the stem with as much care as if the life of the tree were at 
stake. He placed the fruit in Lady Betty’s hand, and went on 
to gather another and another until he had collected six, and 
with these they returned to the shadow of the apple-tree. At 
the same moment Jerry came from the house with a bottle and 
glasses. 


236 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


“I’ve come upon a bottle of the green-waxed Madeiry, 
master,” said lie. 

“ Do you like Madeira, Miss Betty, or do you prefer the red 
wine P ” asked the Doctor. 

Lady Betty expressed her satisfaction with Madeira, and the 
Doctor poured out the wine, after carefully examining the con- 
dition of the glasses. 

“Perhaps the young lady would like a little Burgundy in 
about twenty minutes,” suggested Jerry. 

“ When we want more I will call you, Jerry,” said the Doctor, 
and then added in an undertone : “ Tell your wife to come and 
present her duty presently, and, Jerry,” as that servant was 
withdrawing with comprehensive winks, “put about half a 
shovelful of manure down against the roots of that crinkley 
peach at once.” 

Lady Betty found the fruit worthy of all Doctor Blandly 
had said in its commendation, but could with difficulty con- 
vince him that two were sufficient to satisfy her appetite. That 
she might not lose any particle of the flavour by other 
considerations, the Doctor limited his conversation to peaches 
during the feast, and the stock of his comment upon that fruit 
was yet unexhausted when Jerry’s wife, a neat spare woman 
of fifty or thereabouts, in her best cap and a clean apron, came 
down to the apple-tree to present her duty. 

“ Miss Betty,” said Doctor Blandly, “ this is Kate, Jerry’s 
wife. Kate, this is Miss Betty St. Cyr, of whom I have 
spoken.” 

“ You will find me most obedient and dutiful, Miss,” said 
Kate, with a bob. 

“ And now, my dear, if you will follow Kate, she will show 
you your room, and get you anything you lack.” 

“ Thank you, Doctor Blandly, I cannot stay.” 

“ Not stay, my dear ! ” exclaimed the Doctor, with dejection. 
“ There’s a cold haunch of mutton that’s as short as venison, 
that with a pickled walnut ” 

“And the damson pie made a purpose,” added Kate. Lady 
Betty opened her eyes. 

“ The fact is,” said the Doctor, in confusion. “I had a sort 
of impression, a kind of prediction that you would come to-day. 
You promised to visit me you know.” 

“I am, indeed, sorry that I cannot stay. I have fixed six 
o’clock this evening for an interview at my house with the 
lawyer.” 

“ Well, my dear — business must be minded, but I am dis* 
appointed. However, you are to be my neighbour, and oppor- 


LADY BETTY’S VISIT. 


237 


tunities will not be wanting of tasting Kate’s excellent pies. 
Kate, you can go.” 

Kate made a bob, and with a few “dootiful words,” retired. 

“ Shall you return by the coach P ” asked Doctor Blandly. 

“ Yes — if I can find a place.” 

“ Jerry shall secure that for you. There is a coach leaves the 
1 Angel ’ at four, which will set you down at Hyde Park Corner. 
Had I been sure of your coming and suspected that you would 
leave so soon, I would certainly have retained a friend of yours 
who left me this morning, to accompany you.” 

“ A friend of mine P ” 

“Gerard.” The Doctor watched the expression of Lady 
Betty’s face to see what effect the name made upon her. Her 
cheek remained untinged with colour.” 

“ Mr. Crewe ? ” 

“ No, not Mr. Crewe — but your friend, Gerard still. When 
did you see him last ? ” 

“He came to take me for a drive on Thursday, in his 
Clarence.” 

“In his Clarence ? ” 

“ I am not sure that it was his. It was certainly not the one 
he usually uses — but he keeps a Clarence. Does that surprise 
you ? ” 

The Doctor drew a long breath ; then he smacked his thigh, 
and giving his head a toss, cried : 

“ Well done, Gerard ! You young people have the courage 
0 f the — hum ! of St. George himself. Poor boy — so he took 
you for a drive in a Clarence ! And I’ll be bound he said 
never a word of his altered condition.” 

“ — o — o,” Lady Betty replied, opening her eyes wider and 

wider. “ What is the mystery — why is he Gerard and not 
Mr. Crewe, and why are you so astonished that he took me for 
a drive ? ” 

“Because on Thursday morning I found him. lodged in a 
garret with nothing but a pennyworth of clove-pinks to com- 
pensate him for all the luxuries he has lost. Surprised — no ; 
now I know him I am not surprised at what he did to give you 
pleasure. ’Twas not a miserable pride that made him conceal 
his poverty, but the fear that the knowledge would prevent 
you accepting his services. Surprised ! ” The Doctor exclaimed 
giving his thigh another slap — “not a bit of it. He is a 
Talbot.” 

“ Talbot ! ” cried Lady Betty, catching his arm with trem- 
bling eager fingers — “ Talbot ! ” 

“ Yes, he is our poor Tom’s brother ! ” 


238 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


“ And he is quite poor? ” 

“ Yes, poor as a poet. He has given up his fashionable trade, 
because it was not fit for an honest gentleman, and because th« 
honour of his family rests upon him.” 

“ IIovv can he be poor and Tom’s brother.” 

“ Tom never knew of the relationship.” 

“ Ah ! I understand — but ” 

“ Why does he not inherit his brother’s estate, you ask. My 
dear, these are circumstances which I cannot tell you. Tom 
was the sou of Admiral Talbot’s first wife ; Gerard, the son of 
the second ; but between them a third person was born, who 
was not the Admiral’s son, and he, unfortunately, usurps a claim 
which cannot be contested.” 

“ I do not want to know that. Gerard is poor, and he spent 
money that he could ill afford to give his brother’s sweetheart 
pleasure.” 

“ You need not regret it, Miss Betty,” the Doctor said, see- 
ing the tear in her eye. 

“ Regret it, no ! I rejoice in it. Tom would have done 
that, but no man else except his brother ! ” 

“ They are gentlemen — English gentlemen to the marrow, 
Miss Betty ! ” 

“ And what is Mr. , what is Gerard — Gerard Talbot 

doing in his poor garret ? ” 

“ What usually is done in a garret — he is writing a comedy. 
He brought a few pages in his pocket yesterday, and I assure 
you ’tis prodigious fine. I wanted my friend Baxter to hear 
’em read, but the poor man couldn’t be spared. However, I 
have bound Gerard to come every Sunday, and read his week’s 
work after dinner until the five acts are finished. And you 
shall come on Sundays, and so shall Baxter, and we will listen 
to the man’s work, and give him our poor help, if we see right 
to advise. What say you to that, Miss Betty ? ” 

Lady Betty’s eyes glowed with pleasure. She longed to 
look at Gerard in the new character he bore to her. 

“ He is my brother — as much as though the parson had 
married me to Tom,” she cried. 

“Well, well,” said the Doctor, taking out his snuff-box. 
“We shall see about that. At any rate, you agree to dine 
with us next Sunday, and every Sunday after, don’t you, my 
dear ? ” 

“ Oh, yes — that is ” Lady Betty’s face lengthened. “I 

am only a governess, and Mrs. Baxter ” 

“ Oh ! I’ll settle her — that is, Baxter will arrange all that. 
He has a wonderful influence over his wife has Baxter.” 


BROTHER AND SISTER. 


233 


W I shall he happy — very happy to come and listen to his 
voice. I thank you very much for the kindness in thinking of 
me — and Doctor Blandly ” 

“ Well, my dear.” 

u Do you mind my sending the elbow chair here ?” 

“ Send it by all means. Is it the chair you mentioned in 
your letter ? ” 

“Yes — I couldn’t sell it, and I do not want to take it 
amongst strange people.” 

“ Let me have it. It shall be taken care of whatever it is.” 

Lady Betty faltered : 

44 ’Tis — ’tis — ’tis the chair we used to call Tom’s.” 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

BROTHER AND SISTEH. 

Mrs. Baxter acceded to Doctor Blandly’s request that Miss 
St. Cyr should be permitted to spend her Sundays with him. 
"When he asked for the same privilege to be accorded to the 
Reverend John Baxter, she coldly said that her husband was 
master of his own actions, and was at liberty to do as he chose. 

“In that case you will come next Sunday,” said Doctor 
Blandly. 

The Reverend John Baxter, with tears in his eyes, said that 
he had promised to explain Bunyan’s “ Holy War ” to his 
children, and could not escape. 

“ Very well then, you will come the Sunday following,” said 
the Doctor, in a tone of irritation. 

The Vicar looked at his wife for permission, but that Lady 
stood with her arms folded one upon the other below her spare 
bosom, her nostrils pinched, her lips hermetically closed, and 
her stony eyes fixed on vacancy — the very picture of in- 
difference. 

“ Mrs. Baxter said you are to do as you chose,” cried the 
Doctor ; “ unless you doubt the truth of her assertion, which 
would be unpardonable, you will follow your own wishes ; and 
if you do not come I shall take your refusal as a direct affront.” 

Baxter plucked up courage, and in a faltering voice accepted 
the Doctor’s invitation. 

In consequence of this arrangement, Doctor Blandly begged 
Gerard to defer the reading of his work for a week, which he 
willingly agreed to do, for as yet he was not proud of his work, 


240 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


and very much preferred devoting his thoughts to Lady Betty 
than to his comedy. 

He was astonished hy the change he found in her. She had 
never been to him so softly sweet and charming. She was at 
the house when he arrived, and ran down the steps and across 
the grass-plot to meet him. She called him Gerard for the 
first time, as she held his hand and looked up into his face with 
wide, melting eyes. She pressed him to.take refreshment after 
the fatigue of liis journey. She seemed nervously happy, like 
a child in the presence of a long-expected friend. She listened 
eagerly to everything he said, smiled when he smiled, was 
gravely anxious when he spoke of the difficulties attending 
the work he had undertaken; he felt that her eyes were fixed 
upon him when he was speaking to Doctor Blandly. As they 
sat under the apple-tree, she with a lapful of flowers which she 
was making up into bouquets for the decoration of Doctor 
Blandly’s chimney-piece, it was his taste she consulted first in 
the selection, his approval she demanded. Now and then she 
looked up from her occupation to his face, and returned to it 
with a smile. 

Was the happiness due to the natural surroundings of flower 
and verdure, or to his having entered the field of literature, 
Gerard asked himself. 

After doing full justice to the excellent damson pie Kate 
had prepared for the occasion, Doctor Blandly, despite his 
endeavours to keep awake, dropped into a doze, seated in his 
Windsor chair ; then Lady Betty proposed a walk in the 
shady side of the garden. She slipped her hand under Gerard’s 
arm, and was first to break the silence which a mutual happi- 
ness had produced. 

“ I know all, Gerard,” she said softly. 

“ All, Lady Betty ? ” 

“ All that Doctor Blandly thought fit for me to know — all 
that I want to know. You are poor dear Tom’s brother, and 
since I am his widow — for indeed our hearts were one — you are 
my brother also. We are not quite alone in the world, you 
and I — we have lost and we have found. And you are glad to 
have me for a sister, aren’t you P ” 

“ I did not expect to gain so much of your affection.” 

“ But you loved me, all the same. You said to yourself, 
‘ There’s my poor little sister all alone in the dismal house in 
Park Lane ; she has no one to comfort her, no one to take her 
away from herself,’ and you saved up your money, though you 
were horribly poor, to hire a carriage for my use. And while 
I still regarded you as a stranger, and looked upon your generous 


BROTHER AND SISTER. 


241 


kindness as a mere act of gallantry, you felt towards me as I 
feel towards you now/’ 

" Doctor Blandly has told you more than he should.” 

" Not one word, Gerard, for he knew ’t would make me happy, 
and lessen my grief. And, besides, should there be any secrets 
between us, who are so n?ar to ehch other ? There is nothing I 
would conceal from you. I have made up my mind to tell you 
every Sunday when we meet all that has happened during the 
week, just as a sister should tell her brother. I have quite a 
great deal to tell you about my new engagement. Poor Mr. 
Baxter is quite a martyr : his bread is buttered for him like the 
children’s, and Mrs. Baxter is a tyrant — though she is excessively 
gracious to me, and would make me ill with good things if she 
could — but she is a tyrant for all that, and she has a mouth 
like this — look.” 

" A pretty mouth then under' the most adverse conditions,” 
said Gerard, regarding the little moue Lady Betty made with 
her soft, pretty lips. 

" Even a brother’s compliment must be acknowledged,” said 
Lady Betty, making a mock courtesy. She was gay with excite- 
ment ; and again taking Gerard’s arm, she continued : " Of 
course I cannot tell you much yet — for I only took my ' situa- 
tion ’ yesterday ; but 1 shall keep a diary, and you shall see it 
if you like, when we meet on Sundays. The boys, my pupils, 
are dreadful children; they kick their father’s shins when their 
mother’s back is turned. I have made them understand that 
they will have to treat me with more respect, or they will form 
the subject of an additional chapter to Fox’s ' Book of Martyrs.’ 
I pity poor Mr. Baxter this afternoon, he has to interest them 
with an explanation of Bunyan’s 'Holy War.’ I could never 
understand it, could you ? ” 

" I don’t think that I ever attempted to.” 

u I used to love the ' Pilgrim’s Progress ’ until I was told it 
was a kind of riddle with a moral answer to it.” Lady Betty 
paused, possibly to take breath, and after a moment’s silence, 
she said, giving Gerard’s arm a little pinch : 

" I am so glad you are writing a comedy, Gerard.” 

" You prefer a poor poet to a wealthy gamester ?” 

"That depends. Poet as a rule are rather ridiculous, whereas 
there is a dash and spirit about gamesters that recommend them 
io my taste. I do like ourage, even when it is not quite what 
folks call 'proper.’ ” 

" There is no courage in playing with the assurance of win- 
ning, and a gamester who plays for his living must have that 
assurance.” 


16 


242 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


That, is true. Tis, perhaps, simply because tne gamestei 
wears a better coat that girls prefer him to the poet. Men are 
guided by what they think, we girls by what we see, I believe.” 

“ Would you have liked me equally had I remained a 
gamester P ” 

“ Oh, no ; you wouldn’t have seemed to me like a brother of 
Tom’s if you had done that which he would have scorned to 
do. And I couldn’t have felt so proud of you if you had not 
accepted poverty for the honour of your name.” 

“ Still you do not care for poets.” 

“ Not those who write elegant lines and are always rhyming 
anguish and languish, and hearts and darts. Oh, I hate the 
name of Phyllis ! Those poets are very different to men who 
can write plays. How many acts shall you have in your 
comedy ? ” 

il Five.” 

“I hope they will be good long acts.” 

u You are not afraid that your patience will be exhausted P ” 

“ Oh, no; I am always sorry when a play is over, and I shall 
oe ready to cry when the irritable old father is at length forced 
*o give his consent to the marriage of the young people, and the 
servants and friends drop in and begin to form a semicircle at 
the back of the principal characters.” 

“ But supposing I end my comedy in a different manner ? ” 

“ Can you, Gerard P ” asked Lady Betty, in grave doubt. 

“ I think so.” 

“You must be clever.” 

“ That remains to be seen. I have doubts.” 

“ I have none,” cried Lady Betty, firmly. “ A man who can 
do admirable things must be able to write them. When do you 
think you shall finish your comedy ? ” 

u By the end of the year, I hope.” 

il There are a great many Sundays before then, and you will 
read all that you have done every week. That will be lovely. 
And afterwards it will be played at the theatre.” 

“ If the manager does not reject it.” 

u Oh, he cannot be so stupid as all that. Doctor Blandly and 
I will have a side-box all to ouiselves, and get there the moment 
the doors open, and I shall be dreadfully impatient until the 
curtain goes up, but all the same I wouldn’t miss a moment of 
the time ; and then, when the curtain drops, I will clap. It 
may not be genteel, but I’ll clap with all my might. I should 
like Mr. and Mrs. Baxter and the children to be somewhere in 
the house where I could see them — not in the same box with 
me. I should not have patience with them, they would seem 


IN TOM’S PLACE. 


243 


so commonplace and vulgar. How those boys would clap if I 
promised them something — or if their father told them not to. 
And then, when the five acts were played, all the audience 
would insist upon your coming forward on the stage, and then 
I shouldn’t be able to see you for crying.” 

The girl’s eyes were tearful in anticipation of such joy, and 
Gerard, looking down upon her sensitive, sweet face, felt that 
there was a stronger incentive to struggle for success than 
poverty. 

“ Hear heart o’ me ! ” exclaimed the Doctor, opening his eyes 
about this time, “ I declare I must have lost consciousness for 
half a minute. Where are the young people ? I must make 
my excuses to them for my want of maimers.” 

He jumped up, and catching sight of their figures through 
the hollyhocks, crossed the lawn briskly in that direction. 
Suddenly he paused. They had their backs towards him, 
walking leisurely down the path, Lady Betty leaning on 
Gerard’s arm, he looking down upon her face. 

The Doctor took out his snuff-box, planted his feet a foot 
asunder, set his head on one side, and, slowly smoothing the 
lid of his box with the ball of his thumb, said to himself, 
“ The child loves him for being the brother of her dead lover; 
but the end of loving him for the sake of another will probably 
be that she will love him for himself, thinking more of him as 
another fades from her memory.” 

Then the Doctor took his pinch, which seemed to give him 
much satisfaction. 


CHAPTER L. 

IN tom’s PLACE. 

Lady Betty hailed the returning Sunday with a feeling of 
intense satisfaction. The occupation of the week had not 
distressed her — had not been half so unpleasant as she expected. 
The children had distracted her thoughts, and made her forget 
her troubles for the greater part of the day. But she did not 
wish to forget : it seemed to her like the neglect of an affec- 
tionate duty to give so little of her time to the memory of Tom. 
The vague religious teaching she had received led her to 
imagine that his immortal spirit was cognisant of all she did, 
and she feared to grieve him by neglect. She did not think 
of his sensitive jealousy as a mortal weakness. 

She longed for a day to devote to him ; to kneel in church 

16—2 


244 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


and worship God and holy things with his unseen essence by 
her side. After the service she would go home with Doctor 
Blandly, and there meet Gerard, in whom she found, or fancied 
that she found, a hundred points of resemblance to her dead 
lover, and who was united to her by sympathy and an affinity 
of misfortune. 

Mrs. Baxter’s religion was of another kind, and Sunday 
was, of course, a day of penance. From the moment she rose 
she spoke in a low, sepulchral voice, as if some one lay dead 
iu the house. She walked slowly and firmly, moving like an 
engine at half speed. She made the chocolate weaker than 
usual, and substituted dry toast for the customary dish of bacon. 
Half an hour before it was necessary she arrayea herself in the 
most hearse-like costume, a sable plume in her beaver bonnet, 
and a black velvet pall over her shoulders, and sat in the sitting- 
room issuing orders to the servant-maid in the kitchen without 
moving her head or a muscle of her limbs. The moment that 
the church bell commenced to call folks to church she summoned 
Baxter, and having inspected him from the top of his wig to 
the tag of his shoe-string, to assure herself that he was m a 
creditable state, she took his arm and led him off to the 
church. 

Lady Betty followed with the two boys, Samuel and Luke, 
and took them with her into the vicar’s family pew, while 
Mrs. Baxter, having cast a sharp eye round the empty church 
to see that the pew-opener had neglected none of his duties, 
conducted her husband into the vestry to give him the finishing 
touches before abandoning him to his own devices. 

The Vicar’s family-pew was a square stronghold, with high 
oak walls, which defended its occupants from vulgar observa- 
tion. As the door closed, the two boys went to their hassocks, 
sank upon their knees, and buried their faces in their hands. 
Lady Betty sat for a moment looking at them with adoring 
love in her heart. They were rude and tiresome in their daily 
lives, they had no respect for their father, they fought in 
private, they stole the sugar on those rare occasions when it 
was unguarded by lock and key, they ate of the fruit which 
was all forbidden in their mother’s orchard, but their faults 
found expiation in Lady Betty’s eyes by this simple act of 
devotion. Could she offer to heaven a prayer so innocent and 
acceptable as theirs? As she knelt she implored with her 
whole heart to be made trusting and simple as these little 
children. 

The rustling of her dress and the silence that followed were 
understood by the two boys, and first Samuel with his mouth 


m TOM’S PLACE. 


24J 


open, turned his head cautiously, and then Luke, with his 
tongue hanging out, did the same, and both perceiving that 
“ teacher ” was deep in prayer, they grinned at each other. 
Then Samuel rummaged in his pocket for a stump of lead 
pencil, while Luke turned back the cushion silently, after that 
they began a silent but exciting game of noughts and crosses, 
which was not without significance. 

The bell pealed and then tolled, pews opened and shut, 
coughing began in good earnest, the clerk took his place in 
the box under the pulpit, and suddenly Luke turned back the 
cushion, Samuel concealed the stump of pencil in his capacious 
mouth, and both buried their faces again, for among the many 
sounds they distinguished the approaching footsteps of their 
mother. She looked round at her children and her governess 
with a feeling of devout satisfaction, and as she also knelt, she 
considered that it would be false humility to deny that she had 
done her duty to Heaven and to her family. Then the Reverend 
John Baxter ascended his pulpit, from which, as from a donjon, 
he could securely look down into the family fortress below, 
and the service began. 

When the congregation rose, Lady Betty obtained a glimpse 
of the gallery ; she turned her eyes towards the seat occupied 
by Doctor Blandly, and saw Gerard standing by his side. Her 
face flushed with pleasure, and a sign of recognition passed 
between them which did not escape Mrs. Baxter. Who could 
this thin, elegant young gentleman be ? she asked herself, a 
friend of Doctor Blandly’s P Why had she heard nothing of 
him from Baxter? Was he engaged to Lady Betty ? if so, 
why had she not discovered the fact under that delicate cross- 
examination to which she had been subjected during the week ? 
When they met at the church-door after the service, she learnt 
that his name was Gerard Talbot, and it somewhat reconciled 
her to her husband’s departure to think that she should know 
all that was to be known of the stranger when Baxter returned 
at night. 

As soon as Lady Betty was alone with Gerard, Doctor 
Blandly leading the way with Baxter across the meadow from 
the Vicarage, she said, taking his arm: 

“ Thank you, Gerard.” 

“ For what, Lady Betty ? ” 

“ For coming so early.” 

Didn’t you expect me ? ” 

“ Not so early. The first coach does not arrive on Sunday 
before half-past eleven ; I asked.” 

“ Then you hoped I might come early 1 ” 


246 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


"Of course I did ! It must cost a great deal for a carriaga 
all that distance from London.” 

" It cost me nothing, I walked.” 

" Oh, poor Gerard ! You must be worn out.” 

Gerard laughed. 

“ ’Tis no distance for a man,” said he. " Such a morning as 
this would tempt me to walk, if I w r ere ten times lazier.” 

“ ’Twas not the morning that induced you to come ; if it had 
rained ever so hard you would have come all the same. You 
said to yourself, 1 it will please my sister to see me in church/ 
and that was sufficient.” 

“ Perhaps it would have been sufficient had I said to myself, 
1 it will please me to see my sister.’ ” 

11 You use the very words that Tom would have used, 
Gerard,” sighed she. 

He did not reply, and she attributing the shade of sadness 
which had overcast his face to recollections of his dead brother, 
endeavoured to remove the effect her words had produced by 
changing the supject. 

“ Have you written much of your comedy this week ? ” she 
asked. 

“ I have finished the first act. Last night I saw Mr. Kemble, 
and he promises to read what I have done, and give me his 
opinion, if I take it to him next week.” 

“ Oh, that is famous news. Youmust have worked very hard.’ 

"I found it easier to write thinking of all you said last 
Sunday. You have given me hope and courage.” 

“ ’Tis little enough I can do to help you, Gerard. I am not 
clever, and ’tis not with cleverness I would help you, for I would 
have the glory of succeeding to be due to you alone. But all 
that I can do to make your task less difficult, your life less 
burdensome, that. I will do with all my heart.” She paused, 
they were both silent for a time, then she continued : “ I have 
been trying to think in these last few moments how I can be of 
service to you, but I can find no means of gratifying my wish. 
I am like a poor bankrupt who sees distress all around him, and 
has no means of giving relief. What can I do P ” 

Gerard’s arm trembled beneath her hand as he said in a low 
voice : 

“ Suffer me to hope.” 

" For success, Gerard ? why that is assured. I am certain 
that your comedy will be well accepted.” 

"I have built hopes far higher than the mere triumph of my 
brain. Knowing what I have been, what I am, I dare scarcely 
tell myself all that my soul desires.” 


IN TOM’S PLACE. 


247 


u Whisper hilt- a word, and I will guess the rest. Why should 
you conceal anything from me ? Ls there anyone living dearer 
to me than you ? ” 

“ If you knew how solitary my life has been, how utterly 
alone and uncared for I have stood amongst my fellow-creatures, 
you would understand the emotion that your mere friendship 
produces, and readily perceive what hope my exalted imagina- 
tion conceives.” 

Lady Betty looked at the agitated man beside her in per- 
plexity a moment, and then : 

“ Is it my affection you hope for ? ” she asked. 

“ It is indeed.” 

“ Why, Gerard, you have it. Are you not my brother as 
well as his P How doubtful you men are. Tom, my husband, 
doubtful of my love, and you, my brother, of my affection. 
Kiss me, Gerard — kiss my lips, and doubt no more that I am in 
truth your sister.” 

Gerard bent and touched her willing lips, and she looked at 
him afterwards with -wide eyes, her cheeks pale with anxiety 
for his peace, and finding him still troubled, she did what a 
woman usually does in such emergencies, turned the subject, 
and endeavoured to interest him in different matters. 

“ What a fool my passion has made me — how blind and rash,” 
thought Gerard ; “ but that her thoughts of love can dwell only 
on poor Tom, she would have caught the meaning of my words, 
and straightway I must have lost her affection and respect 
together.” 

The Reverend John Baxter sat down to his dinner in the 
merriest of moods ; he grew grave after the roast, and learned 
with the pie; after that he loosened the lower button of his 
waistcoat, and attacked the port in silence. Lady Betty led 
the way with Gerard to the garden ; the doctor and the parson 
were so long to follow, that it was to be presumed they took 
that which is the best digestive of a good dinner — a doze. 
However, they were both wide awake when they at length 
made their appearance, and neither Gerard nor Lady Betty 
showed any signs of impatience. 

“ Jerry will bring us a dish of tea to settle our spirits, and 
then, Gerard, we will hear the new comedy,” said Doctor 
Blandly. 

A table was set under the apple-tree, and when Jerry had 
served the tea, Doctor Blandly placed a chair before the 
board for Lady Betty, and was about to seat himself, when 
he stopped abruptly, and turning to Jerry, said with 
asperity — 


248 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS, 


“ How is this, Sir ? Only three chairs for four people. 
Fetch another, instantly.” 

Gerard, as the younger, stood; the two elder gentlemen 
seated themselves. Presently Jerry returned cai rying a velvet- 
covered chair. 

“ ’ Tis Tom’s ! ” cried Lady Betty, catching sight of it, and 
half rising from her seat, alarmed lest the sacred seat should 
be profaned. 

11 “ Then I think, my dear, it will be very proper that we ask 

Gerard to use it,” said Doctor Blandly, with quiet firmness. 

Lady Betty smiled faintly, and murmured: “He is next in 
our hearts.” 

And so Gerard took Tom’s place in the empty chair, as 
Doctor Blandly had doubtless intended he should. Before the 
cups were empty, Doctor Blandly, with Lady Betty’s per- 
mission, lit his pipe, that he might, with the philosophic calm 
produced by the smoke of good birdseye, consider the merits of 
the literary work about to be read ; and then looking round to 
see that the Reverend John Baxter was also in full possession 
of his faculties, he said: 

“Now, Sir ; for the comedy.” 

And Gerard, without hesitation, opened his manuscript and 
read. 

A very good picture they formed, that little company sitting 
under the apple-tree, against a background of peaches and pink 
hollyhocks. Lady Betty in her black crape dress with short 
sleeves, her long white, round arms resting upon her lap ; 
Doctor Blandly, with his shapely legs crossed, his portly 
person, his fair, strong, yet kindly face, his head thrown well 
back in critical expectancy, and pouting his lips over the 
waxed end of his long pipe; the Reverend John Baxter with 
his elbow on his knee, his chin upon his thumb, his index 
finger sagely pointed towards his red nose, his brows knitted 
with intense intellectual application ; and lastly, Gerard, spare, 
white and anxious, seated in his brother’s chair, and turned with 
his face towards Lady Betty, holding the manuscript before him. 


CHAPTER LI. 

BARNABAS AND HIS COURT. 

While the wines in the cellar of Talbot House held out, 
Barnabas realised his own ideal of happiness. He lived royally, 


BARNABAS AND HIS COURT. 


249 


according to his own conception. His court was composed of 
the half-dozen rascals who had supported his entrance to the 
estate, and the vagabond lawyer served for prime minister. 
His leg Tvas yet painful ; he could not move about without a 
stick or some such support, hut this inconvenience was of small 
importance, as he had no inclination for exercise, and rarely 
stirred from his seat. He sat at the head of the long oak 
table, in the grand old banqueting-liall, in a capacious high- 
backed chair, his leg supported on cushions, one hand resting 
on a Venetian glass, and the other holding a halfpenny clay 

O e. His lawyer sat at his right hand, his followers sat 
ow, each man with a bottle and a paper of tobacco before 
him. 

He boasted and lied, and his court listened. He told old filthy 

} *ests, and they roared with laughter; he swore, and they 
ooked grave. If anyone fell asleep under the influence of the 
drink before him, he rose from his seat, maugre his leg, took a 
candle from the sconce, and set fire to the sleeper’s hair, or 
poured red wine down his neck, and limped back to his seat 
grinning malignantly. He was too vile to laugh heartily, even 
at the success of his own practical jokes. When he himself 
was besotted and drowsy, he swept bottles and glasses off the 
table, sprawled out his arms, and laid his leaden head upon 
them moaning and grunting until his drunkenness had passed off 
and he could sit up to drink again. They never went to bed, 
never changed their linen, never touched water, but sat there, 
drinking and sleeping, occasionally eating, perpetually smoking, 
until the floor was strewn with broken bottles and gnawed 
bones, and the great room stank with the filthy tobacco, and 
the reek of that foul company. One day Barnabas awaking 
from a long sleep, more sober than usual, looked round upon 
the litter of broken bottles and his sleeping comrades, and 
after five minutes cogitation, roared out for Slink. 

“ How many bottles are there in the cellar ? ” he asked, when 
Slink appeared at the door. 

“ About a score, your honour.” 

“ What 1 ” shouted Barnabas. 

Slink repeated his answer, keeping on the alert to dodge the 
Dottle which Barnabas generally hurled when displeased. 

“ Come here, and help me up. I’ll go and see for myself.” 
He hobbled down to the cellar with much difficulty and 
profuse blasphemy, and ascertained that Slink had told him 
nothing but the truth. Then swearing at his friends, at him- 
self for his insane liberality, he locked the cellar-door, and 
returned to his customary seat with the key in his pocket. From 


250 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


that moment he did not part with it except when he wanted a 
bottle for his own consumption. 

When his fellows awoke and called for refreshment, Barnabas 
bade Slink bring a can of water, and bluntly told them that 
they would get no other kind of liquor at his expense in future. 
The moment that this new regulation was found to be no prac- 
tical joke but a serious fact, the company withdrew to the other 
end of the table and held a council, while Barnabas smoked and 
looked at them in sullen indifference. At the end of a brief 
conference, the lawyer came forward as spokesman and addressed 
Barnabas. 

“ Your friends have got business to do. They wish to be 
paid for their services and to go to their homes,” said he. 

“Well, pay them, and let them go,” replied Barnabas, with 
an oath. 

“ I have no money.” 

“ You said the steward had the collecting of the rents.” 

“ He refuses to give me anything.” 

“ And quite right too — send for him.” 

The steward was sent for and presently came. 

“You have had some rents to collect from the cottages: 
where is it P ” asked Barnabas. 

“ In my keeping,” replied Blake. 

“ Give it to me.” 

“ Not a penny-piece,” said Blake, folding his arms. “ My 
orders be to give all that comes in to Doctor Blandly.” 

“What has Doctor Blandly to do with my estate ?” 

“ Doctor Blandly is Mr. Tu minus’s agent, and I’m his servant.” 

“ Well, then you can just go and serve Mr. Thomas,” Barnabas 
said with a sneer and another oath, “and if you are not off 
the estate in half an hour, I’ll have you kicked off.” 

“ The first man that lays his hand on me shall be taken to 
the lock-up, and the rest after them, if they dare to interfere 
with me.” 

“ We will soon see about that ! Take the old fool and pitch 
him into the horse-pond, you fellows.” 

No one moved a hand. He swore and threatened in vain. 
The steward stood unmoved. 

“ You and that old idiot the Doctor, shall answer for this,” 
cried Barnabas, smashing a glass down on the floor. “ Do you 
still refuse to obey me P ” 

“Yes. I serve only Doctor Blandly, and these are my 
orders. You are to be suffered to remain at the Hall and keep 
what company and servants you like at your own expense. 

You are to be allowed to shoot game for your own use. But 


BARNABAS AND HIS COURT. 


251 


if you offer a single bird for sale, or remove but one article 
from the bouse, or cut so much as a single branch from one of 
the trees, I’m to take the lawyer’s papers before the nearest 
magistrate and demand his protection of Mr. Thomas’s pro- 
perty.” 

“ The property’s mine now my brother is dead.” 

“ Ah ! you’ll have to prove that.” 

Barnabas turned to his lawyer, who appeared to be not at all 
surprised at what he heard. 

“ Here, what’s to be done ? ” he asked. 

The lawyer shrugged his shoulders. 

“Do you want to know anything more of me p” asked the 
steward. 

“ Get out, curse you ! ” shouted Barnabas. 

Humphrey Blake left the room. 

“ You said I could take possession,” said Barnabas. 

“ You have,” replied his counsellor. 

“ But how am I to defeat this cursed Doctor Blandly P ” 

“Find the body of your brother, and you can laugh at him.” 

“ By George, I will. Set a score of fellows to drag the rivei 
from end to end.” 

“ Give me the money to pay them.” 

“ I haven’t a guinea. Raise money for me — I’ll sign any 
paper you like — you shall make your own terms for payment 
when I get the money.” 

“ It is impossible to raise money until your title is estab- 
lished.” 

“ You said you could make a case for the Court of Chancery.” 

“ So I can, but not without money. You owe me a long 
bill now.” 

“ But I’ll pay you what you ask when I get my title — why 
don’t that satisfy you P ” 

“ Because I don’t belieye you ever will get your title.” 

Amidst the storm of oaths and imprecations that followed 
this announcement, the lawyer and his associates withdrew, 
merely putting in their pockets such articles of value as they 
could conceal from the vigilant eyes of the steward, and one by 
one sneaked away from the Hall and its penniless tenant, with 
no intention of returning. 

The only immediate regret Barnabas felt in their departure 
was, that it had not taken place before. They had drunk best 
part of his wine, and what should he do when he had finished 
the remainder ? The question was fraught with such gloomy 
forebodings that he despatched it from his thoughts, determine 
ng to face the evil when it came — as often before he had 


252 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


shirked the reflection that he would he hanged at some subse- 
quent date. It was when night came, and the candles failed 
to light up the further corners of the large room, that he missed 
his companions. The dim corners had a fascination for his 
eyes, which grew with the terrible pictures that came before 
his heated and disordered imagination. He pictured Tom in 
the likeness of a corpse he had once seen drawn from a pond 
after long lying there, and fancied him stepping in that 
hideous mortality from out the gloom. 

“ Light all the candles ! ” he said to Slink. 

“ There be but a dozen left, master, and they are nigh down 
to the sockets,” said Slink, as he moved to obey the command. 

He asked himself what night would he with neither com- 
panions, nor wine, nor light. The reflection was productive of 
a fresh command : 

“ Fetch me another bottle, and then blow out every candle 
but one.” 

As the lights one after another were blown out he drank the 
bottle, his eyes wandering from corner to corner; when only 
one was left he shut his eyes and tried to sleep. 

The next day he sent Slink out to sell his horse. Slink 
obeyed with a sorry heart, for the horse had been his comfort 
through the miserable months, and had improved in appearance 
under his careful grooming, since the first unlucky day it was 
given to him. He had not the spirit to higgle over the sale, 
and accepting the first offer that was made for the beast, he 
brought his master forty shillings, and had a bottle flung at 
his head for his pains. The money was spent in candles and 
strong ale. 

Once more at night-time he forced Slink to play at picquet, 
but with nothing to gain and no inducement to cheat, the play 
had so little hold upon his mind, that his senses were for ever 
wandering to catch strange noises or the fantastic shadows 
thrown by a guttering candle. His only recourse was to 
stupefy his brain with tobacco and beer. 

One morning he limped up the staircase and along the great 
corridor to examine the chambers. They were all large, but 
one seemed less awful than the rest, and he decided upon going 
there at night, thinking to sleep sounder in a bed than cramped 
over a table. But when the light faded, he dared not go away 
from the banqueting-hall — that at least he knew ; its nooks and 
hollows were familiar to him. 

The corridor was mysterious even in the light which came 
Through the coloured oriel window at the end, it would be 
awful at night. And the chamber — might it not have a secret 


THE MEETING OF OLD FRIENDS. 


253 


door , might he not find something lying in the bed when he 
opened it; these reflections passed through his muddled, 
enfeebled, guilty mind, and kept him to the larger room. 

There was no one in the great house but himself and Slink. 
Slink was indispensable. He shot the game, cooked it, ate 
with him, submitted to his bullying, slept in the same room 
lying on the sofa, in that dark corner which Barnabas feared 
most, and waited on him with the docility and patience of a 
born servant. But he added not a little to his nightly terrors. 

When he detected his master pausing to listen, in the act of 
raising a glass to his lips, he showed the liveliest symptoms of 
dread, ejaculating, “Oh, Lord ! ” and “ merciful powers defend 
us ! ” and fell a chattering with his teeth as though in an ague ; 
if Barnabas dropped his pipe, and fixed his eyes upon the 
obscurity, Slink would drop on his knees, imploring the angels 
to have mercy upon him. 

“ What are you afeard of ? ” Barnabas asked one night. 
“ You’ve fastened the shutters and barred all the doors, haven’t 
you ? ” 

“All the doors I knows on, master; but what does that 
signify! The place is like a rabbit warren; there’s a dozen 
passages only known to the rightful owners ; a dozen doors as 
open secret-like into the west wing. You can smell the 
mouldering walls and the rotten floors when you pass by the 
big staircase, for all its bein’ shut off this hund’ed years, and 
closed with boards and green baize that the great, long-legged 
spiders and wood-louses crawl over. What’s doors to ghostes ? ” 

“ Ghosts ! What are you talliing about P D’ye think I take 
heed of such rubbish P ” 

“ It may be rubbish, but I’ve heard as murdered men must 
walk till they’re laid with bell and candle, and whose to lay 

Master Tom, when his body’s Oh, good Lord ; what are 

you looking at, master ? ” 

“ Hold your cursed tongue, and go sit over yonder where the 
curtain hangs.” 


CHAPTER LII. 

THE MEETING OF OLD FRIENDS. 

It was a wretched existence that Slink led even in the broad 
light of day, when Barnabas himself was free from superstitious 
apprehensions. 

Humphrey Blake, having sifted all the evidence he could 


254 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


collect, had arrived at a tolerably close approximation to the 
truth. Why Doctor Blandly pooh-poohed his conclusions he 
did not know; he was equally in the dark as to the true 
relationship of Barnabas to the Talbot family. What he 
maintained, with the persevering obstinacy of conceit, was that 
Barnabas was an impostor, and in all probability Master Tom’s 
murderer. Doctor Blandly’s obstinacy in refusing to credit his 
belief piqued the egotistical old man’s pride, and strengthened 
his desire to prove the truth of his convictions. One person 
could if he chose reveal the fact, and he was Slink. 

But Slink, for a very good reason, was silent and stubborn, 
and refused not only to tell the latter events in his master’s 
career, but to reveal any of his antecedents, despite the most 
artful and persevering cross-examination to which the steward 
subjected him. Wrath against him for his contumacy rather 
than for any supposed participation in the murder, Blake 
unwisely removed the one chance he had of making discoveries 
— he forbade Jenny, on pain of being sent away to her maiden 
aunt in Lancashire, to speak to Slink. On the other hand, he 
threatened Slink with the most severe punishment if he caught 
him sneaking about the lodge. 

By these means he hoped to bring the lad to confess ; but as 
time went on and Slink made no sign of submission, he extended 
his punishment by forbidding the workers on the estate to 
have any communication with Slink, so that the poor fellow 
suffered all the pains of ostracism, with the additional pain of 
knowing those who shunned him for old friends. Master 
Blake refused to let him have even the company of a dog, and 
forbade him to enter any of the stables except that set apart 
for his master’s horse. There would have been pleasure in 
shooting hares with a dog to start them from their coverts; 
there was none in hunting alone. 

One morning he shot a wood-pigeon, and as he was jumping 
down the bank into the road, to secure the fluttering bird, his 
ears were greeted with the sound of a well-remembered voice, 
crying in a rich brogue : 

“ Well done, me boy ; I couldn’t a bit um better myself.” 

Turning round he discovered the old pedlar, Barney O’ Crewe, 
seated on the bank, with his pack on one side of him, a bottle 
on the other, and three inches of black clay pipe between his 
fingers. 

“ Whoy faix, ’tismy own swate friend, Toby!” the pedlar 
exclaimed, rising and then grasping Slink’s hand, he added, 
“ Oi’m charmed to renew th’ acquaintince, darlint.” 

The devil himself, with such a warm demonstration of 


THE MEETING OF OLD FMENDS. 


255 


friendship, would have been welcome to the unhappy Slink ; 
whatever doubts he might have had as to the pedlar’s sincerity 
were forgotten, and hearing the unctuous voice, he could onlv 
remember the songs and stories which had delighted him in 
the loft on the night of their previous meeting. He grinned 
from ear to ear, and beamed grateful acknowledgment of the 
friendly overtures. 

“ An’ y’are out in the mornun a shootin’ birds and bastes, 
like a rale gentleman, as y’are.” 

Slink nodded assent. 

" It does me good to see the same,” continued the pedlar. 
" And is the master wid yer ? ” 

" He’s at the Hall, being laid up with a broken leg, but it’s 
nigh healed now.” 

“ Ah! he’s got into the Hall, has he? good luck to him; 
and he’s taken his own proper name, Mr. Thaophilus Talbot, 
Esquoire P ” 

Slink nodded again. 

" Well, my boy, ye shall jist take me up to the Hall the way 
ye’ve come, for I’m not proud, and I’ve a moighty pradelection 
against passing the lodge, which is the raison I’ve been resting 
myself on this sod for the last hour, takun a philosophicle look 
at things. Putt your lips, to commence wid, at the bottle, 
darlint ; you know the flavor of it, ye divil ye deu ! Putt the 
bird in your pockut, ’tis an illigant bird, to be sure, and a 
murtherin’ sin to lave it behint.” 

Slink pocketed the bird, and with a glance down the road to 
be sure that Master Blake was not in sight, assisted the old 
pedlar in climbing up the bank and entering the wood. When 
these difficulties were overcome, the garrulous Barney recom- 
menced talking, leaning affectionately upon the arm of his 
young friend. 

" I’ve been a prayun to the blessed saints for ye, darlint, and 
I hope to goodness the master trates ye koindly.” 

"That’s all right,” said Slink. 

" Beca’se ’tis a jewel in his crown to have a faithful sarvint, 
and there’s few in the warld that’s the loikes of you, divil a 
wan ! Ye desarve to be trated handsome, and ye shall be, for 
oim goun to stay a bit wid the master, and I’ll spake a good 
word in your favor, besides entertainin’ ye wid all the beauti- 
ful songs and stories in my rickollection, wid a taste of the 
bottle in betwixt and betwane.” 

Slink’s face expanded in the broadest of grins. 

"Ye shall take another taste of the same, immagiate as a 
token, darlint.” 


255 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


He stopped, drew out the stone bottle from his pack, and 
having administered the dose and resumed his march, he said, 
in a tone more wheedling and soft than ever: 

“ ’Tis the blessed saints as guided ye to me this mornun in 
answer to my prayers, for I’ve been a dyun to see you a long 
toime, and have an agraible convirsation wid ye. . And now 
ye shall tell me all what’s been a happenin’ to ye since I bade 
ye good-bye at the { Lone Crow.’ ” 

He paused to give Slink an opportunity of acting upon his 
suggestion, but finding him disinclined to break silence he 
continued : 

“ I’ve been making inquoiries in the town, and the inn be- 
yond the hill, and they tell me that Misther Thomas Talbot 
has been croally murthered, but I can’t belave it ; is it thrue 
now ? ” 

Slink nodded. 

“ Why wasn’t I borned a lawyer ? ” Barney asked himself, 
and then with a smile he said : “ So you know he was mur- 
thered. Now can you tell me in sacret and confidance who 
murthered ’um ? ” 

“No, I can’t,” said Slink, stoutly. 

“ Well, that bothers me complately, for they tells me it was 
the master as murthered ’um, and seein’ you fellows ’um loike 
his own blessed shadder, ’tis impossable he could have done it 
and you not know. So I say, darlint, that y’are mistuk. 
Master Thomas was not murthered.” 

“ Yes he was.” 

“ But I say he was nut ; and so how can ye say he was ? ” 

“ Because he was shot and ” Slink stopped suddenly. 

“ And buried dacent in the river. Thrue for you, my swate 
friend ; but how d’ye know he was shot, seein’ his body was 
niver brought to light P ” 

Slink bent his brows in silence. 

“I’d a been a raal judge, and done nothun but putt on the 
black cap from mornun’ till night, if Providence had edicated 
me to the laigal profission,” thought the pedlar. 

“ Look here, sir,” said Slink, “ you’ll see the master directly, 
and he can tell you all you want to know, I daresay. Let’s 
talk about something else.” 

The amiable pedlar was so well pleased with himself and 
Slink that he made no objection to this proposal, but entered 
at once upon the narration of several anecdotes, which made 
the road to the Hall too short to his admiring companion. 

Barnabas was no less pleased than Slink had been to see 
the pedlar. He had need of a lively companion, and hoped 


THE MEETING OF OLD FRIENDS. 


257 


that his father’s superior cunning would enable him in a short 
time to be independent of assistance. He concealed his feelings, 
however, as well as he could, and only responded to O’Crewe’s 
flattery and protestations of “ ondying afliction ” with a grunt 
or a nod. 

Nothing daunted by this cold reception, the pedlar exerted 
himself to amuse his son, and get him into a good temper, and 
so far succeeded in raising him from his morbid prostration, 
that he saw the candles lit without a shudder, and bade Slink 
get out of the room directly after, partly because he could do 
without him, but chiefly because Slink evidently enjoyed the 
pedlar’s conversation, and wished to stay. 

Banished from the room, Slink contented himself with 
listening at the key-hole to the pedlar’s songs and stories, until 
clapping his eye to the key-hole, after a minute’s silence, he 
perceived him walking towards the door, when he retired with 
alacrity, and took refuge in a deep embrasure by the great 
stairs. From this hiding-place he saw the door open, and the 
pedlar come out and stand in a listening attitude for a moment 
or two, then return to the room, closing the door after 
him. 

It was some time before he dared return to the door, hut at 
length the misery of sitting alone in the dark and silence while 
good things were being said in the adjacent room overcame his 
fears of discovery, and he cautiously approached the convenient 
key-hole, and bent his ear to listen. 

“ ’Tis moighty hard, and so it is, to get the hold truth out of 
ye, Barney, my darlint,” the pedlar was saying. “ It does ye 
credit, and I’m proud on ye. If you was as simple as your 
sarvint, Slink, I’d turn ye inside out like a pair o’ leather 
breeches in half a minit. If ye knowed how I’ve been a prayun 
to the holy saints, and sthrugglin’ and sthrivin’ to learn the 
blessed truth, to help ye in your misfortunes, ye’d he more 
agraible and complaisaint. Isn’t it all for your own good, my 
blessed Barney, that I’d have you revale the holy sacrets of 
your hussom to me P Sure, I larned more from that swate 
innocint lamb, Mr. Slink, in two minutes than ye’ve con- 
descended to tell me in half-an-hour.” 

“ What has he told you — blabbing hound ! ” 

“Nothing at all but to your honour. He only towld me 
how you shot um and throwed his body in the wather.” 

“It’s a lie.” 

“ To be sure I made a mistake. ’Twas you shot ’im, and the 
lad that throwed um into the river.” 

“ I’ll stop the fool’s tongue ; I’ll have his life to-morrow.” 

17 


258 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


“ Barney, my darlint, y’are right. You shall have his life— 
but net to-morrow, my brave boy.’ 

a What do you mean P ” 

il Listen to me, swaitest. Ye want ividence of Masthef 
Tom’s death in order that ye may come into your holy rights 
and trew inlieritince, don’t ye P ” 

“ Well?” 

“ Supposun to-morrow mornun, soon as the glorious sun is 
a-spreadun a blush of beauty over the charmun face o’ nature, 
I go to the nairest magistrate and says , 1 Yer honour, there’s a 
secret on my moind that I must revale or my conscience will 
droive me to dispiration. I know who ’twas that murthered 
and did for that gentleman of quality, Mr. Thomas Talbot P ’ ” 

“ Will you betray me 

u Not a bit of it, darlint. Putt down the bottle when you’ve 
took a drink. This is how the whole business wull be trans- 
acted. I’ll say to the magistrate, 1 If it plase your honour, 
Sor, I was walkun’ along quite paceable by the side of the 
river, thinkin’ o’ nothing in the world but the blessed saints in 
heaven, whan I see a man on horseback comun’ towards me, 
and taking him to be no better than a highwayman, I jumped 
t’other side the hedge, and laid there wid my pack in mortal 
tripidation and almoighty fear, till all of a suddiut I heard a 
pistol-shot and a scrame, and the nixt moment I seed a horse 
run bye widout no one on his back at all at all, and the blessed 
Virgin inspirin’ me wid the courage of a lion I crept along be- 
liint the hedge so as I couldn’t be seen till I come in sight of a 
blackguard as was draggun’ a gintleman into the cowld water. 
By the light of the blessed moon 

“ There wasn’t a moou.” 

“ Thankve for the hint, my charmer. * By the loight of the 
swate stars T see the countenance of the gintleman and the face 
of the blackguard perfectly clair. The face of the blackguard 
I shall niver forget to my dyun day. It terrified me to sich a 
degree that I took to my heels to save myself.’ Whan I’ve 
told the magistrates this I shall woipe the prespiration off my 
brow, and I shall continy: ‘ Well, Sor, goun wid my pack to 
Talbot Hall to see if I could sell the gentry a paper of pins, or 
a small-comb, who should I foind there, in the livery of a 
sarvant, but the very blackguard I see a murtherin the gintle- 
man by the river, and it’s him I’d have yon take into custody.* 
What do you think o’ that, Barney darlint ?” 

“ What am I to say, for they’ll come questioning me, plague 
take ’em.” 

“ Nothun at all, darlint. Divil a word. Ye’ll just take your 


FLIGHT AND PURSUIT. 


259 


oath that you don’t know notliun about ut, but tuat sure 
enough ye gave Slink lave to go and see his swateheart, and 
he didn’t come back to ye till the mornun, wid a cock-and-bull 
story of gettun drunk over-night ; and since then, ye’ll add, the 
varmunt has been playun ducks and drakes wid the money 
like water, gettun dronk, and flirtun wid the wenches.” 

“ And then Slink will tell his story. How then ? ” 

“ Let um. Wait till I get in the witness-box. I knowhow 
to manage um. I’ll terrify um wid my eye. I’ll make the 
varmint swear black’s white, and tkremble and stutter and 
make such a fool of a liar of himself that the intilligent jury 
will be bound to hang um. I’ll get the compliments and 
flattery of the judge and all the illigant lawyers for me ability, 
trust me.” 

“ And what good will all this do me ? ” 

“ What good, d’ye ax ? Faix, and ’tis not my own son that 
will ax the question twoice. Sure, whan they’ve hanged Slink 
for murtlierin’ your brother, they can’t dispute that the mur- 
thered man’s dead ; and then what’s to bar your inheritance ? 
And we will hang un as sure as justice.” 

Slink waited to hear no more. 

About ten o’clock Barnabas roared for him — having emptied 
the great pot of ale. Pie roared a second time, and there was 
no answer. 

Then the pedlar went to the door, and called out in his 
blandest tones : 

“ Toby, darlint, whoy don’t ye come when yer master calls ? 
Where are you, swaitest P ” 

But his seductive appeal failed to elicit response from Slink, 
and for a very good reason : he was ten miles from Sevenoaks 
on his road to London. 


CHAPTER Lni. 

FLIGHT AND PURSUIT. 

Slink made his way to London through Ightham, Wrotham 
and Gravesend, feeling himself safer on the road he knew. He 
had not a farthing in his pocket, and in the morning hunger 
became unendurable. A stable-keeper gave him sixpence and 
as much as he wanted to eat and drink for a day’s work in his 
stable. At night he continued his journey, but the rain falling 
heavily compelled him to take refuge in a barn, where he slept 
until the morning. 


17—2 


260 


LIEUTENANT BARNAEAS. 


About midday Saturday he arrived at Edmonton, and rang 
the bell at Doctor Blandly’s. Old Kate came to the gate, and 
bade him call in the evening; her master and Jerry had gone 
a-fishing. She could not say where they were, and advised 
him to go wait in the “ Bell. 

This was capital advice to a man with money, but Slink had 
spent his sixpence on the road, and was once more hungry and 
penniless. He dared not sit on the settle outside the inn, for 
he doubted not but that the pedlar had sworn information 
against him, and that all the country was in pursuit of 
him. 

He turned up the little lane beside the Doctor’s garden, and 
lay in a meadow until the sun went down, then he carefully 
approached the main road, and again rang at the Doctor’s bell, 
This time Jerry came in response. 

" Master’s dining, but you can come in. If your business 
ben’t very important, you had better wait till he’s finished.” 

“Oh, my business ben’t important. It’s only a matter of 
life and death, and as I’ve waited since the morning, there’s no 
reason why I should’nt wait another hour or so — albeit I’ve 
had nothing betwixt my teeth since ten o’clock.” 

“Oh, you’re one of those ’tis-but-tisn’t, might-be-but-can’t, 
gentry, I see. You’d better follow me, case I get blamed for 
your fault.” 

Slink followed Jerry, and having duly scraped his feet, and 
rubbed them well, heels and side, on a mat, he took off his hat, 
smoothed down his hair, and entered the dining-room when 
Jerry was satisfied with his presentability. 

“ Well, my man ; what have you got to say to me ? ” the 
Doctor asked, with his mouth full. 

Slink twisted his hat round, and glanced from the Doctor to 
Jerry, and back again to the Doctor without replying. 

“ Don’t you hear what’s said to you ? ” asked Jerry. 

“ Yes, Sir ; but if you please, I don’t want to speak before 
you, Sir.” 

The Doctor laughed heartily. “ We’ll you won’t mind his 
knowing where you come from, I daresay,” said he. 

“ Sevenoaks, your honour.” 

“ Jerry, take that young fellow down to the kitchen, and 
give him a mug of ale and a thumb-piece; he hasn’t anything 
in his stomach, I know by the sound of his voice, And don’t 
worry him, do you hear, Jerry ? When you’re a bit refreshed, 
return to me here, my lad.” 

Slink obeyed with alacrity, and reappeared in the dining-room 
surprisingly soon, considering the quantity of ale and bread and 


FLIGHT AND PURSUIT, 


261 


cheese he had consumed in the interval; but he had a wide 
mouth and a large throat, and his excellent digestive organs 
were equal to any task imposed upon them. 

“ Now my lad what is it ? ” the Doctor asked, clearing a 
space in front of him to rest his arms upon, as Jerry withdrew 
and closed the door. “ Have you come from Mr. Blake the 
steward ? ” 

“ Not exactly, your honour, but very near, as one may say. 
It was the steward’s daughter as told me to come to you.” 

“ His daughter — the wench with red cheeks P ” 

“ And beautiful dark eyes, your honour,” Slink sighed. 

“ Ha ! ha ! The same story everywhere,” the Doctor said 
half to himself. “ Well, well; and why has she sent you to 
me?” 

“ Because she said you would stand by me if I told you the 
whole truth, and wouldn’t let them hang me.” 

“ Great Heavens ! — hang you ! — what for ? ” 

“ For murdering Master Tom.” 

Doctor Blandly raised himself in his chair, and looked at 
Slink in blank astonishment for a minute, then said in an 
altered tone : 

“ If this deed is yours alone, tell me nothing. I am loth to 
be instrumental to the death even of a criminal, unless it is 
absolutely my duty. If then you killed this poor gentleman 
of your own will and purpose, say not a word to me, but go out 
by that door while I close my eyes. But if — as by your 
appearance it seems to me more likely — you have been but the 
tool in the hands of a more villainous man, tell me what is on 
your mind, and I will do what I may to befriend you.” 

“ God bless your honour! the guilt is not on my head. Let 
me tell you just what happened the night afore last as I listened 
at the door in Talbot Hail.” And then Slink related the con- 
versation he had overheard between Barnabas and his father : 
in conclusion he said “ When I heard their scheme to bring me to 
the gallows, then I made up my mind to run away into the woods 
and hide myself there ; but I couldn’t go without first saying 
good-bye to my sweetheart, and begging her to disbelieve the 
wicked things they said against me, and it was sheas bade me 
come to you and confess everything, ‘ For,’ says she ‘the Doctor’s 
the justest man that ever lived, and won’t see you hung for 
your master’s crime/ she says.” 

The Doctor spoke, but Slink heard nothing but the sound of 
the bell which was at that moment pulled. Looking through 
the window, he saw over the tops of the gate, the eye and 
wrinkled forehead, and grey hair of Barney O’Crewe. 


262 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


“ My God ! ” he cried, “ ’tis the pedlar I Hide me, Doctor- 
hide me 1 ” 

“ One word — is his story true ? — did you kill Mr. Talbot P ” 

** No ; I swear to heaven I didn’t.” 

“Then all the pedlars in the world shan’t touch you. Go 
upstairs, and in the first room you come to, lock the door, and 
crawl under the bed if you like. Jerry, bring the man at the 
gate in here if he wants to see me, and say not a word more 
than is necessary to him on the way.” 

Slink followed the doctor’s advice to the letter, while Jerry 
admitted the pedlar and conducted him into Doctor Blandly’s 
presence without returning a single word to his bland inquiries 
and persuasive addresses. 

“ ’Tis Docthur Blandly I have the honour of salutin’,” said 
the pedlar. 

“ That’s my name. You can leave the room, Jerry. Return 
when I ring the bell.” 

“ ’Tis a jewel of a servint y’have, Doctor Blandly — a swate, 
civil spoken old man, as ever drawed the blessed breath of 
loife, with a dacent habit of holdin’ his tongue, which leaves 
nothun to find fault wid in his speech.” 

“And who may you be, Sir P” 

“The question’s a very proper one, and does you credit, 
Docthor, and I’ll answer ye widout any risarvation. I’m Mr. 
Barnabas O’Crewe.” 

“ Barnabas O’Crewe — the father of the man who calls himself 
Theophilus Talbot ? ” 

“ That’s as hereaftlier may be ; at present you may take it 
that I’m his perticlar friend. In the first place. Doctor, y’are 
doubtless aware that the murtherer of Mr. Talbot is discivered 
and brought to loight.” 

“ Who is the murderer ?” 

“ Toby Slink by name — the varmint as stole Mr. Thomas’s 
horse, shot his dog, and finilly slaughtered the young gintle- 
man and throwd him into the cowld river. I see ’um do it wid 
my own eyes.” 

“ Have you informed the magistrates ? ” 

“ I have. I’ve took my Bible oath on it ; and the b’y’s as 
good as hanged. Albeit, he’s given us the slip — bad luck to 
um, and can’t be found nowheres. However, oi’ll foind um, 
lave me alone for that, I’ll onairth um loike a fish from the 
blessed ocean. Now, Docthor, we’ll preshume that he’s hanged, 
and drawed and quart.hered, and all complete, amen! and 
there’s no furder obstacle to Thaophilus Talbot coming into 
possession of the funds y’are so kindly taken care of for um.” 


FLIGHT AND PURSUIT. 


263 


u Not a farthing. I will throw the estate into Chancery.” 

“ I beg to differ wid ye, Doctor, on a p’int of law. If the 
b’y ’s hung for havin’ murtliered Mr. Thomas, how will ye 
proove that the gintleman is aloive ? ” 

“ You’re a cunning rascal !” cried Doctor Blandly, striking 
the table with his fist. 

“ Thank you koindly for the complimint. I trost I’m a bit 
diver in the law. Now Thaophilus has promused that I shall 
live like a prince when he come into his fortun — he’s wullin 
to make splendid terms wid me to howld my tongue and live 
in his company.” 

“ Then why don’t you hold your tongue P ” 

“ Becase I set no value on all these riches, for two or three 
reasons. In the fust place, 1 don’t think I should get ’em ; in 
the second, I want money at oncet to hunt up that varmint 
Slink, for the public officers won’t do their duty widout, bad 
luck to ’em ; and in the third place, I don’t hanker after livun 
in the society of Thaophilus— he’s contliracted an onpleasant 
habut of wakun up in the middle o’ the noight and seeun 
ghostes that makes my blood run cold and oncomfortable.” 

Well, well— come to the point.” 

“ Bedad I’m comun to it straght. Docther dear, y’ have a 
koind o’ spite against Thaophilus.” 

“ I have the same feeling toward other villains.” 

“Quoite roight for you, Docther. I know that ye’d much 
rather see Mr. Gerard in Talbot Hall than bis half-brother — for 
I’ll t ell you candid and thrue, Doctor, there being no witnesses 
present, that Mr. Gerard is no son of mine. And now -widout 
no more bating about the bush, if you’ll promuse me faithful to 
give me a thrifle — say two or three hundred pounds a year for 
the whole of my life till I die — I’ll proove that Mr Thaophilus 
is an imposter.” 

“ You will say that of your own son ? ” 

“To be sure will I. For I don’t like the principals of urn. 
That gettin’ up o’ nights ain’t mitral and it ain’t pleasant, and 
he’d chate his own father if he had the chance, bad luck to um. 
I’ll swear he was three months old before ever lie was registered, 
and that Admiral Talbot, Heaven rest his sowl — was no more 
the b’y’s father than you are.” 

With knitted brows Doctor Blandly looked at Barney O’Crewe 
in silence whilst he considered his proposal. Had he his own 
inclinations alone to follow, he would have rung the bell for 
Jerry to show the old vagabond the garden-gate at once, but 
Gerard was to be thought of, and it was for Gerard to decide 
whether the evidence of a rascal should be bought and paid for. 


264 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


He felt that the advantages, were too great to he relinquished 
hastily for a scruple which, after all, was one of delicacy rather 
than conscience. 

“ Well, Docther dear, and what do you think of ut ? ” 

“ What I think of it is of small importance. How Mr. Gerard 
Talbot takes your offer remains to be seen. I shall set the facta 
before him to-morrow, and on Monday, if you call here at ten 
o’clock, you shall know whether he accepts or rejects your 
proposal.” 

The Doctor rang the bell. Jerry answered immediately, and 
his presence stopped Barney O’Crewe from saying anything 
further upon a matter which he had every reason to keep secret. 
He had a mortal aversion to witnesses. 


CHAPTER LIY. 

QUICK AND DEAD. 

The pedlar had parted from his son early on Friday morning 
with the avowed intention of swearing information against Toby 
Slink with the nearest magistrate, and returning to his son 
“ immaidjitly.” 

“ Will you come wid me, Barney, darlint ? ” he asked. 

“ ’Tisn’t- likely,” replied Barnabas. 

“ Maybe y’are wise, though y’are not sociable, the saints love 
ye. Rape ye’r spirits up, me charmer ; I’ll be back wid ye in 
the twinklin’ of an oye.” 

As a matter of fact the old man never went near the magis- 
trate, having resolved in the course of the night to take that 
somewhat hazardous course if he could not make satisfactory 
terms with Doctor Blandly. “ A pig by the leg’s worth a 
dozen in the bog; for it’s all the warld to a chaney orange you 
won’t catch a hair of their backs — the sly varmints,” he said to 
himself, as lighting his pipe he trudged away from Talbot Hall, 
with his face towards London and his pack on his back. 

Barnabas drank, smoke and dozed until mid-day ; then feeling 
hungry he limped away to the kitchen to get the remains of 
the hare they had been eating for breakfast, and which his 
father had cleared away, saying he would make the place look 
a bit u dacent ” in case the magistrates came to question Bar- 
nabas. There was not a scrap of food in the kitchen, and th« 
pack which the pedlar had likewise removed for “dacency” was 
not there either. Barnabas extended his search from place to 


QUICK AND DEAD. 


265 


place until his patience was exhausted, then he took to smash- 
ing everything breakable that came in his way, until his fury at 
finding himself cheated and robbed was abated ; after that he 
sat down and tried to form a plan of revenge. His father had 
hinted at the “ Lone Crow ” of compromising with Doctor 
Blandly, and Barnabas had no doubt that he had gone to sell 
him. 

What could he do to frustrate the plans of the subtle old 
man? Nothing. He felt himself utterly helpless. Not a soul 
stood by him ; even Slink had abandoned him. His pockets 
were again empty — for his father, though ignorant of the game 
of piquet, had shown himself an adept at cheating and fleeced 
him of the small residuum remaining from the forty shillings 
brought him by the sale of Slink’s horse. And he was hungry 
— villainously hungry. The very fact of not being able to get 
anything to eat increased his appetite. Drinking and smoking 
only heightened his imaginary necessity for food. At length, 
flinging the old jug at the wall, he rose up from his seat 
resolved to sell his mare. Prudence told him that before long 
he might have need of her on the road : “ Curse the future,” he 
cried, in reply. 

He limped to the stable, with his hat wrong side forward over 
his eyes, and his stick in his hand. The mare had been neg- 
lected since Slink gave her a parting feed, and whinnied as he 
flung the doors back. “ Get over,” he growled, hitting her on 
the flank savagely ; the mare obeyed, whisking her tail and 
showing the white of her eyes. He determined to leave the 
saddle for another day, and having untied the halter from the 
ring on the manger, he gave the rope a jerk to turn the mare. 
She was unused to such neglect and rough treatment in the 
stable, and turned with so little care as to bang Barnabas rudely 
against the side of the stable. Exasperated by this addition to 
the morning’s wrongs, he lifted his stick, and clenching his 
teeth, brought it down with all his force upon her back. A 
kick, a bound, and a scuffle, and the mare wrenched the halter 
out of her master’s hand, bolted into the yard, and through the 
open gate into the wide and open park. She was a speck in the 
distance when Barnabas next caught sight of her. 

“ The Devil’s against me,” he said, throwing himself upon 
the grass. 

He would have taken the saddle in the town to sell, but for 
the superstitious belief that the ill-luck of the day, Friday, 
would attend him there, and that the saddler, as well as the 
devil, would be against him. The rain began to faU, but he 
lay there in dogged indifference until he was wet through, then 


266 


LIEUTENANT BAKNABAS. 


shivering’ with cold he shuffled into the Hall, and sat down 
beside the beer barrel, where he drank and smoked until about 
four o’clock. The ale did not make him drunk — it did not 
even stupefy him, it simply depressed him and made his head 
ache. 

He was so completely wretched that had there been a 
hanging rope or other ready means of destroying himself at 
hand, he would have committed suicide. He left the barrel 
with a curse, and went out again into the air. The rain was 
still falling heavily, persistently; there was no break in the 
leaden sky. The ground was soft and spongy, the only sound 
was the splashing of rain-water and the chattering of sparrows 
under the eaves ; the horizon was veiled with misty clouds. 

To stay amid such dismal surroundings wouldmiake him mad, 
he felt, so he limped away from it, down the broad drive and 
through the sodden lane to the nearest ale-house, where if he 
found no one to sympathise with him, he should at least have 
the excitement of quarrelling with the innkeeper when it came 
to the question of paying for what he had consumed. 

When the time came for closing the inn he was turned out, 
and driven into the middle of the road with a kick from the 
indignant innkeeper, who had unwisely supplied him with 
bread and cheese, drink and tobacco to the value of thirteen- 
pence. 

The rain fell still heavily, without intermittence. There 
was no light. 

Now running against a bank, now stumbling into a ditch, 
now walking forwards without thp slightest knowledge of 
whither his footsteps were leadiug him, Barnabas by slow steps 
came to the lodge, which was discovered by the light gleaming 
through the chinks of the window-shutter. A horrible dread 
had seized his mind that he should have to enter that Hall and 
sleep in the dark, for he did not know where the tinder-box 
was to be found ; perhaps his father had stolen that with the 
other things. 

He knocked, and when Jenny replied, he begged her to give 
him a lantern in the most abject tone he could command. 
After a few minutes Jenny opened the window and handed 
him the light. 

“ I suppose you’re afraid to open the door to me,” he growled, 
when he bad the lantern in his hand. 

“ I’m no more afraid of you than I am of a rat; but the 
rats and you too are best outside,” she answered, closing the 
shutters again. 

With the lantern swinging by his side he hobbled up the 


QUICK AND DEAD. 


267 


drive, never raising his eyes from the ground until he wa« 2lose 
hy the terrace steps. The terrors of solitude in the home of 
the man he had murdered were already taking hold of his 
imagination. He dreaded the awful silence, broken at long 
intervals by the strange slight sounds which seem inseparable 
from an old house, and which have no explanation. He 
dreaded the snatches of sleep that would overpower his senses 
for aw r hile, and end with the sudden awakening from a dream 
so hideous as to defy passive endurance. He dreaded being 
aroused from forgetfulness by the sputtering of a candle, to 
find shadows leaping from the floor to the ceiling in the 
flickering light of a fallen wick. 

He paused on the first step to ask himself if it were not 
wiser to sleep in the empty stable, and then he raised his eyes 
to the house fyrtively, and for the first time. There was a 
light there. Not in the banqueting chamber, but in the room 
on the other side of the entrance. The lantern rattled as it 
hung on his quivering finger. 

What did the light signify? Had his father and Slink 
combined, and laid evidence against him, and were the officers 
of justice come to take him away to gaol ? That was the least 
of his fears ; the more terrible were indefinable — a vague, awful 
apprehension of the unknown conjured up a thousand ghostly 
figures, grotesque and horrible. But the light was real ; it 
glowed steadily. He could count the bricks in the casement. 
There was nothing supernatural in the appearance; no figures 
such as danced before his eyes in the delirium of fear looked 
out at him, grinning with flesliless chops, beckoning with 
rotten fingers! And if the dead were not feasting in that 
house what had he to fear? Not the living. Justice would 
have followed him to the ale-house and trapped him there, not 
waited with uncovered light in the Hall for him to run like a 
fool into an unbaited trap. 

“ ’Tis the pedlar returned,” he said to himself, with an effort 
to convince himself on the point. And why should it not be ? 
Might he not have been detained by the magistrates? That 
was most probable. Yet it was with trembling steps he 
ascended to the terrace. He paused to listen; not a sound 
reached his straining ear. The sot had fallen asleep, he con- 
cluded, still he dared not lay his hand upon the door. H e stole 
towards the windows ; they were too high from the' ground for 
him to see into the lower part of the room. He went back to 
the door, and raised his hand as if to turn the handle, then 
dropped it like a thing of lead by his side. He looked around 
him. Within the radius of light cast by the candle in his 


268 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


lantern he saw the black moss upon the grev stone of the 
terrace, and the rain dropping vertically; beyond— nothing. 
Should he call the pedlar ? His throat was too dry, and his 
tongue had lost its office. He must do something — enter the 
house or fly. Fly — whither could he fly P If the dead were in 
the house, would it let him sleep or rest 

He pursed his lips, whistled low, and listened. He fancied 
he heard a voice. It gave him courage, for he had caught the 
pedlar speaking aloud to himself the night before. He whistled 
again and louder. Certainly a voice spoke. The light upon 
the casement moved slowly. A dark figure came to the window, 
but from where he stood Barnabas could see nothing but a 
break in the light. The figure retired ; a door creaked. The 
lantern fell with a clatter upon the stones at his feet ; there 
was a rushing in his ear as if water were closing over his head. 
The chain upon the door fell, the bolt grated in the lock, an 
unseen hand opened the great oak door, and raised a candle 
high, and under the light of it Barnabas saw standing face to 
face with him, in the very habit that he wore, Tom Talbot ! 

With a rattling in his parched throat he fell forward, flat 
upon the wet stone, like a log. 


CHAPTER LV. 
pandora’s box. 

When Lady Betty looked from the fortress under the pulpit 
on the following Sunday morning, she was surprised to see 
Gerard standing alone in Doctor Blandly’s pew. She had seen 
the Doctor on Saturday morning in perfect health, and was at 
a loss to account for his absence. 

“ Why are you alone, Gerard P ” she asked, when they met 
after the service. 

“ It is by my fault., I fear,” he replied. “ I was late in 
leaving town this morning, and believing that Doctor Blandly 
would go on without me, 1 came directly to the church, instead 
of going to him first in the ordinary way. He doubtless has 
stayed at home waiting for me.” 

“ I was afraid some accident had happened to him, you 
looked so grave and serious this morning.” 

“ 1 am not a gay fellow at the best of times,” said Gerard. 

Lady Betty looked at him with quick suspicion, and asked : 

“ Are these not the best of times then, Gerard P ” 


PANDORA’S BOX. 


2GW 

“ I think we must go round by the road ; the heavy rains of 
this past miserable week must have made the meadow im- 
passable.” 

“ Let it be the road/’ she answered, and they walked on in 
silence until they -were clear of the homeward-wending congre- 
gation, she glancing furtively now and again at him, then 
pressing his arm a little closer to her side, she said : “ Tell me 
what is the matter, Gerard.” 

“ Mr. Kemble has read the first act of my comedy and 
condemned it.” 

“ Is that all ? ” cried Lady Betty, with a laugh. “ Why, 
then, be gay. Merit has ever to face the spite of envy.” 

“But Mr. Kemble is neither envious nor spiteful. ’Twas 
with pain he gave me his honest criticism to save me from 
greater disappointment and waste of time.” 

“ Granted he be honest in his opinion, what then ? ’Tis but 
the opinion of one man, as likely to be mistaken as another. 
Were we not all charmed with your work when you read it to 
us under the apple-tree P do you think Doctor Blandly would 
flatter ? do you think I am insincere ? ” 

“ God forbid 1 ’Tis because you are sincere in your friend- 
ship that I cannot take your judgment as unbiassed.” 

“ And if ’tis so, why should you be discouraged P Say that 
the act has less merit than we believe, and more faults than 
Mr. Kemble, with all his generous amity, can point out, ’tis 
but the fifth part of your comedy, and your comedy is but a 
fractional part of that which your brain contains. If we 
were judged by single efforts, the ablest of mankind might be 
debased, the feeblest exalted. Do we judge Shakespeare by 
the first few pages that he wrote ? ” 

“ Dear girl, would you have me put on wings, and fly to a 
height from which the fall must break me ? ” 

“ But you have genius to sustain you. You took up the pen, 
feeling that you could write, and that, consciousness should be 
your assurance.” 

“ I took up the pen by necessity, and learnt too late that 
poets are born, not made. I am not a poet ; I am — nothing ! ” 

The tone of despondency in which he spoke was strong-er 
than argument ; it forced Lady Betty to doubt her own judg- 
ment. She was silent for some seconds, then she said : 

“ Gerard, you told me one Sunday that I gave you strength 
and courage to persevere ; do you remember ? ” 

“ Perfectly, and ’tis true. If I have wrote one worthy line, 
’twas in a happy moment which you had made hopeful.” 

** I have not altered, why should my influence fail P Let 


270 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


me inspire you with yet greater hope. ’Tis my dearest wish 
to help you, to be of womanly service to you, to hold the cup 
to your lips, and brighten your existence by all the means I 
have.” 

Gerard felt his heart stirred, and his blood running quicker 
through his veins as he listened to these affectionate words and 
looked into the girl’s sweet earnest face. He thought how 
admirable she was, how weak he. 

“ You put me to the blush,” he said ; “I am ashamed of 
my faint heart.” 

“ ’Tis diffidence alone,” said she ; “ your only fault is in 
setting too high a value on the careless or partial criticism of 
this Mr. Kemble. And who is he ? a player, forsooth ! who 
judges a play by the scope it affords his powers.” 

“’Tis not a careless criticism; he pointed out a hundred 
defects which I perceive are real.” 

“ And I,” cried Lady Betty, “ will point out a thousand 
merits which you shall not be able to deny. After dinner wo 
will go through the manuscript together while Doctor Blandly 
sleeps.” 

“ ’Tis burnt.” 

“No matter ; I do believe I remember every word that you 
have wrote and read. I will recall the passages, and you 
shall write them.” 

“ Lady Betty, you shall not waste your labours on a fruitless 
task. Give me your help and sympathy in achieving that 
which is within the power of an ordinary man, and we shall 
both succeed, you in holding me to my purpose, I in gaining 
the fair reward for my work.” 

“Why, that is well said, Gerard. Men do not live by 
writing plays alone. There are many honourable means of 
rising to eminence and fortune beside the stage. A poet’s rank 
is not the noblest. Oh, you are wise and right. ’Tis only a 
woman who would attempt with pertinacious obstinacy to ob- 
tain a position for which Nature unfitted her. And poets! 
what are they, Gerard ? Lazy and indolent as a rule, careless 
in their persons, untidy in their habits. I wouldn’t have you 
look less like a gentleman for all the adulation in the world. 
Then playwrights, again ! Dear heart ! what a life they lead ! 
’Tis said they drink and die prematurely ; and the people they 
meet and speak to, and get to like behind the scenes! You 
would have lost your delicacy, you would have seen me but 
seldom, and then only to make "me regret. I’m best pleased 
you have renounced the idea of writing plays for a profession; 
not that my opinion is altered in the least.” 


PANDORA'S BOX. 


271 


Gerard could only listen and love. 

“ You could have wrote a play as good as any of Mr. Garrick’s, 
that’s certain,’’ she continued. “ You can write for your own 
amusement and our pleasure ; your theatre shall be the garden 
lawn, your audience good old Doctor Blandly and myself, with 
Mr. Baxter for a critic; his snore will be your only censure, 
unless you make the hero too bold. But you shall work for 
some higher end than the amusement of the idle. Couldn’t, 
you be an astronomer ? There is something majestic in that 
study, and astronomers live to a great age. They seem to me 
almost as grand as patriarchs, and I never heard of one falling 
into bad habits.” 

“ I fear it’s a poor business in a lucrative sense. It would pay 
a man better to find five shillings than a new planet.” 

“ Are you laughing at me P ” Lady Betty asked, reproach- 
fully. 

“ Laughing at you ? ” cried he, looking down with tumultuous 
emotion into her simple-wise, beautiful, grave face. u You 
dear 1 I could worship you for my god ! ” 

He had taken her hand, and as he spoke he pressed it fiercely, 
and his ardent gaze seemed to scorch her very soul. 

The blood left her face, she drew her hand from his and 
turned her eyes away with a frightened look. It struck her 
with the force of a sudden discovery that Gerard loved her, and 
loved her as a brother may not. 

She walked to Doctor Blandly’s gate without one word. Her 
silence contrasted oddly with her previous volubility. Gerard 
seemed equally embarrassed. His love was a secret no longer. 
Did he regret that a sudden accession of passion had overcome 
his habitual reserve ? No. 

The barrier was broken down, and the forces of love and 
passion took possession of his soul, sweeping reason and pru- 
dential considerations before them as they rushed from restraint. 

“ If she will let me hope to make her my wife,” he said to 
himself, “"what difficulty will be insurmountable? Position, 
money, whatsoever is necessary to her happiness, I will obtain, 
if she blesses me with that one encouragement.” 

And for this encouragement he prepared to ask her, when 
dinner should be finished, and Doctor Blandly Taking his cus- 
tomary doze. 


272 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


CHAPTER LVI. 

GERARD TURNS HIS FACE TO THE WALL. 

“ My dear/’ said Doctor Blandly, after greeting Lady Betty 7 
“ when you have removed your bonnet and tippet, you will come 
and drink a glass of Madeira with me in the front room ; our 
dinner will be a little later than usual to-day.” 

On Sunday dinner was generally served at half-past one 
punctually, in order that Jerry and Kate might profit by the 
Reverend John Baxter’s afternoon service; the present depar- 
ture from that rule made no impression upon Lady Betty, whose 
thoughts were troubled by the recent discovery she had made 
of Gerard’s feeling towards her. She ran upstairs to her room, 
and sat there for full five minutes in deep thought before com* 
mencing to make her toilette. 

Meanwhile Doctor Blandly led Gerard into the front room, 
and insisted upon his drinking Madeira. Gerard was excited, 
and declared he felt no need of refreshment. 

“ Drink that, all the same,” said the Doctor. 

Gerard tossed off the glass with a laugh, and then said : 

“ I am afraid I have been the cause of your staying at home 
this morning, Sir.” 

“ No, my boy ; I have had visitors, and my time has been fully 
engaged — a remarkable thing for me, you will say. ’Tis true, 
a remarkable thing has occurred — a thing unexpected by me 
and by you.” 

“ Something has happened to Barnabas,” said Gerard 
quickly. 

“ ’ Tis true. Will you have another glass of Madeira ? ” 

“No; I can hear anything you have to tell me. I3 he dead?” 

u I will tell you all that has happened, Come with me into 
the garden. Lady Betty will be here presently, and you must 
know at once.” 

Gerard followed Doctor Blandly into the garden, impatient 
for a confirmation of his suspicions, and to tell the truth, of his 
hopes ; for if Barnabas were dead, the Talbot estate would be 
his, and he should be able to offer Lady Betty something more 
than an empty hand. A young countryman in a worn livery 
was at the foot of the garden steps. Doctor Blandly whispered 
a word to him, and he, touching his hat, walked sharply down 
the garden, past the hedge and wicket, and into the kitchen- 
garden beyond. 

“In the first place, Gerard,” said the Doctor, touching the 


GERARD TURNS HIS FACE TO THE WALL. 273 


young man’s arm, " I have seen the father of your half-brother 
Barnabas ; he came yesterday, and offered to swear his pater- 
nity, and reveal the fraud put upon your father.” 

" That would put me in possession of my father’s estate, and 
clear his name from disgrace.” 

" So I thought, and I bade the man come to-morrow to know 
if you would buy his services. But listen, he had no sooner 
gone than I learnt a still more important fact. You saw the 
young fellow to whom I just now spoke ? ” 

" The country servant.” 

" He is a foolish and dense, but, in the main, honest lad. 
He has served Barnabas — partly compelled by fear, partly 
cheated by a mistaken idea of gratitude. He detailed the 
circumstance of Tom’s disappearance. Tom was thrown from 
his horse, and while he lay stunned upon the ground, Barnabas 
shgt him. At the same moment, Tom’s horse, in struggling to • 
rise, kicked Barnabas, breaking his leg. Unable to remount, 
and fancying he heard the sound of approaching voices, he 
called for assistance to the lad — Toby Slink, whom he had placed 
in ambush near at hand. Slink carried him into an an 
adjacent corn-field, and in obedience to his threats and command, 
returned to tlie towpath to throw Tom’s body into the river. 

" As he laid his hand on Tom’s arm, your brother opened his 
eyes. The fall had stunned him ; the bullet had passed through 
the fleshy part of his arm. When the lad recovered from his 
fright, he went down on his knees, and prayed to Tom to 
forgive him, acknowledging the part he had been sent to play. 
Tom was weak from the loss of blood, still bewildered by the 
blow, and knew that he was at the lad’s mercy. He had no 
reason to suspect the identity of Barnabas, and no suspicion of 
what would result from his disappearance, so he promised the 
lad to hide for a fair month, giving him a chance of escaping 
from his master, and avoiding the punishment Barnabas had 
vowed to inflict if his orders were not carried out successfully. 
For Tom had left London with the intention of staying aloof 
from Lady Betty until his unreasonable jealousy was cured, 
and here was a means which he thought ” 

"How do you know what Tom thought?” Gerard asked, 
turning deadly pale. 

"Because he has told me. He is at the bottom of the 
garden at this moment, as hale and hearty, thank God, as ever 
he was.” 

Gerard dropped his chin upon his breast, and murmured — 

" I also should thank God.” 

"And you will, dear lad, when this momentary pang of 

18 


274 


LIEUTENANT BAENABAS. 


loss has passed,” said the Doctor tenderly. “ For He who did 
most sacrifice, has said that ’ tis more blessed to give than to 
receive.” 

With an effort Gerard seemed to free himself from re- 
gretful reflection, as, raising his head quickly, he looked down 
the garden towards that part where his brother waited. 

“ Go to him, Gerard,” said the Doctor ; “ I hear Betty’s 
voice.” 

They separated after a silent grasp of hands — Doctor 
Blandly going into the house, Gerard through the wicket, and 
down the fresh-scented vegetable-garden. The brothers met 
and embraced, after the fashion of that time, but in silence, 
and then they sat down side by side on the bench where 
Doctor Blandly was wont to sit and admire his healthy 
cabbages and bright scarlet beans. 

. “ Where is my Betty, Gerard P ” Tom asked, in a low, eager 

voice. 

“ In the house still, with Doctor Blandly.” 

“ I hunger to see her sweet face again ; the Doctor tells me 
that, she is looking thinner and paler than she did.” 

“ She has suffered, Tom, and for love of you.” 

“ Poor soul ! poor child ! Dear sweetheart ! She shall smile 
from this day, she shall laugh and dance and sing, and not a 
grave thought shall come to her of my making. You will see 
the bright life stream into her face like colour to the opening 
bud, Gerard ; you shall see her more happy than the bird upon 
the bough there ; so that it will do your heart good to look upon 
her.” 

" Yes, yes,” Gerard answered. 

"The Doctor has told me of her courage, her independence, 
her fidelity and trust, outdoing my imagination, and shaming 
my hopes as all too mean and contracted. Walk with me, 
Gerard, I cannot sit still. Great God, how abundant are thy 
blessings I ” 

Gerard rose and walked by his side, glad of any change that 
would help him to conceal his feelings. 

u ’Tis all incredible ! ” continued Tom. " To think that when 
I saw you last, sitting beside Lady Betty in your chariot the 
morning of our duel, I was a hopeless fallen wretch, standing 
hid amongst the shrubs, putting an ill construction upon her 
smiles and gaiety.” 

" Poor soul— she was half-mad for joy that you had 
escaped.” 

“ I know it. I have felt sure that it was so in my reasonable 
moments, but then I was mad with jealousy and shame, and 


THE OMEN, 


275 


could be just to no one. I felt myself then alone in the world 
despised, laughed at, loveless, and now I find that I am loved 
as never man was loved before, I think. My Betty, my wife ! ” 

“ She has ever thought of you as her husband.” 

“ Blandly has told me so, and of her love for you because you 
were my brother. Truth — love has driven that joy from my 
remembrance. ’Tis not alone I find a wife, but a brother too. 
Give me your hand, brother — both. You also have done brave 
things. I am told you have writ a play.” 

“ A worthless play as it proves — Mr. Kemble has damned it.” 

“ Then damn Mr. Kemble in return. Pshaw ! you shall do 
better than write plays for a grudged remuneration ; you shall 
see ’em for your pleasure, Gerard ; one half of all I have is 
yours, all if you will, so that I have my Betty.” 

“ Then you would be the richer, Tom.” 

“Aye, that I should, a hundredfold. We will live together, 
hunt together, fetch long walks, and live as brothers should. 
We will share a happiness in common, and when we find a 
suitable wife for you — some sweet, good girl ” 

He broke off suddenly, for his ear caught above the sound of 
his own voice a faint cry : 

“ Tom — my love ! ” 

Lady Betty had run across the lawn, had reached the wicket 
by the hedge, and then hearing his well-remembered voice, her 
strength failed her, and she held by the gate, her knees 
trembling beneath her, crying and sobbing so that for awhile 
she could make no articulate sound. 

At her cry he came, and seeing him she tottered forward 
with a little scream, and would have fallen but that he caught 
her up in his arms and held her to his heart. And then she 
pressed her lips to his, and swooned away with the ecstasy of 
her joy. 

Gerard turned his face to the wall. 


CHAPTER LVII. 

THE OMEN. 

The company did spare justice to the excellent dinner prepared 
by old Kate. The lovers were impatient of the moments that 
kept their hands and eyes asunder; Doctor Blandly was 
excited ; and every morsel that he forced himself to take 
seemed to choke Gerard. For Lady Betty’s peace he was 

18-2 


276 LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 

bound to be there, though for his own he would fain have been 
alone in a desert. 

After dinner, Doctor Blandly mercifully despatched him 
with a note to Mr. Baxter, and instructions to bring the parson 
back to share in the general happiness, while he, with many 
apologies for the infirmity of his old age, ensconced himself in his 
elbow-chair, and did his utmost to sleep as usual. He may 
have failed, but what took place between the lovers was con- 
cealed from his sight by the yellow silk handkerchief. 

Daring the afternoon Jerry brought up the best that his 
master’s cellar contained, and under the influence of the wine 
the Reverend John Baxter and Doctor Blandly became exces- 
sively merry. 

Lady Betty’s spirits mounted also, but her gaiety was 
hysterical, and towards evening, in the midst of a peal of 
laughter, she caught sight of Gerard’s face, and as suddenly 
burst into a flood of tears. 

Doctor Blandly came to her side, and when he had calmed 
her he insisted upon her going to bed. She did not refuse to 
use the spare chamber, and soon after Mr. Baxter returned to 
the Vicarage with an explanation for his wife. 

The brothers and Doctor Blandly sat together and talked. 

“ What has become of my half-brother, Barnabas P ” Gerard 
asked. 

“Ah, I have that part of my history to tell you,” replied 
Tom. “ When I returned to the Hall, the first thing I did was 
to frighten old Blake nearly out of his wits. He is an egotist, 
and having come to the conclusion that I had been murdered 
by Barnabas, I believe his dignity was hurt by seeing me alive.” 

“ He is a conceited old fool,” said the Doctor. 

“ But a faithful servant, so we will forgive him his faults. 
When I had reconciled him to the fact of entertaining a wrong 
conviction, he told me of the life Barnabas has led as the master 
of Talbot Hall. A most wretched, miserable existence it must 
have been.” 

“ Vice and happiness are as far asunder as love and hate,” 
said Doctor Blandly, sententiously. 

“ Deserted by everyone, the unhappy man had left the Hall. 
Blake knew not why, possibly to find relief from solitude in 
the nearest inn. When we went up to the house we could find 
no one, but as I wished to see him I sat down to wait for his 
return. I heard from the steward all that had happened. The 
light faded and we lit candles. When Blake had nothing more 
to tell, he fell asleep. The rain fell pitilessly, and as I sat 
there listening to the perpetual dripping, I fancied what the 


THE OMEN. 


277 


condition of a guilty wretch would be, deserted and alone in 
that old hall, and I commiserated the man who had attempted 
my life.” 

'“ A mistake, Tom, a mistake,” said the Doctor ; “ commiserate 
the unfortunate, if you will, but whip all rogues, I say.” 

“ Y ou may say that, Doctor ; but your practice would be 
most merciful. For what are rogues but unfortunate? Have 
you not said that vice and happiness are wide asunder ? ” 

“ Go on with your facts, Tom. You can philosophise better 
when you are older.” 

“ When the monotony was becoming insupportable, I heard 
a sound outside. I roused Blake. We listened, and soon after 
a faint whistle reached our ears. I went to the window, and 
looking out caught sight of a lantern by the terrace steps. 
Blake took a candle, and we went into the entrance-hall. He 
was fearful, and standing well behind the door, pulled it open 
and raised the light that I might see who was without. There 
was a shock upon the stone pavement like the fall of a tile from 
the roof, and taking the candle from Blake I found, stretched 
at full length, the man who had attempted my life — Barnabas, 
to appearance dead. W T e got him into the hall, and after 
awhile, when he showed signs of returning consciousness, I 
withdrew, leaving him to Blake’s rough mercy. What means 
he took to assure him that he had nothing to fear from me I 
can’t tell.” 

“If Blake’s the man I take him for he promised him nothing 
short of hanging, I’ll be bound,” said Doctor Blandly. 

“That is not unlikely, for as soon as Barnabas had recovered 
hie strength he knocked the old man down, and fled from the 
Hall, whither it is impossible to say. The outbuildings were 
all closed, the rain fell in a torrent the whole night, it was 
pitch dark, and the unhappy wretch was lame. He did not 
return to the Hall. 

“ In the morning Blake wished to have the woods beat, and to 
hunt him out like a fox, but as this might have driven him to 
some deplorable act of desperation, I forbade any search to be 
made beyond the outbuildings and park-sweep. I waited about 
the Hall until late in the afternoon, hoping he would return, 
for in the course of the day I learnt from the iunkeeper near 
that he had no money, and I expected that hunger would force 
him to come back to the Hall. However, I had seen no sign 
of him when I quitted Sevenoaks yesterday evening, I left 
orders that food should be put in the hall, and the doors left 
open, and that he should be unmolested.” 

“ Thank you, Tom, for your forbearance,” said Gerard ; “ I 


278 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


have wished him dead again and again, but he is my mother's 
son, and I would not have him die a shameful death.” 

“ God forbid ! ” said Doctor Blandly. “ ’Tis a barbarous and 
a mischievous thing to publicly kill a man in infamy. The 
proper end of punishment is to correct and deter, and for a 
rogue like Barnabas, death is no punishment at all. The 
scaffold makes heroes of contemptible villains. Punish rascals, 
I say again, despite Master Tom’s merciful outcry, but punish 
them in a manner that shall teach them the policy of living 
decently.” 

“ You shall tell us, Doctor, bow we are to punish him, for I 
confess ’tis a question that perplexes me,” said Tom. 

The Doctor knitted his brows, pursed up his lips, and took a 
deliberate pinch of snuff before replying ; then he said : 

“ I would just pay his passage to America or another of our 
colonies, and give the captain a round sum to be handed to 
him for his necessities when he is set ashore.” 

“ And the whipping you suggested P ” Tom asked, slyly. 

“You can promise him that if ever he shows his face in 
England again. I take it that what with fright, starvation, a 
broken leg, and exposure to the rain of Friday night, he has 
had as much corporal punishment as his constitution can sup- 
port; ’tis his conscience that must chastise him henceforth.” 

As neither of the brothers could suggest any improvement 
upon Doctor Blandly’s proposed dealing with Barnabas, it was 
determined between them that the following day they should 
post to Sevenoaks, find Barnabas, and make terms with him for 
quitting the country. 

When Lady Betty woke, the morning was yet grey. She 
slipped from her white nest, and runuing across to the window 
drew back a corner of the blind and looked down into the 
garden. Tom was there ; it was not too early for a lover to be up. 
Making a frame with the blind, she showed him her smiling 
face, closed her red lips and parted them ; he seemed to under- 
stand the pantomime, and recklessly tearing a rose which Doctor 
Blandly would have grudgingly nipped with careful scissors, 
he threw it up upon her window-sill in response. In an in- 
credibly short space of time she dressed, and with his flower 
in her bosom ran down, and gave up her still sweeter, tenderer 
face to his lips. 

He put his arm about her and she clasped his hand, and in 
that position they walked round the garden dozens of times, 
looking at the flowers but not thinking of them ; feeling the 
utmost happiness but saying very little, perhaps because all 
words seemed too prosaic to express the poetry of their love 


THE OMEN. 


27* 


“ We are not talking much/’ she, said after awhile, with a 
little laugh. 

“ I do love you so, darling, that I cannot think of indifferent 
matters readily, I love you, that is all my tongue will say.” 

“ ’Tis enough, dear,” she answered. 

She was right, perhaps ; but after awhile he felt it necessary 
to say something else. 

“ You have more colour in your sweet cheeks this morning,” 
said he, “ did you sleep well P ” 

“ Too well. I said to myself when I closed my eyes — ‘ I will 
dream of Tom, or I will not sleep at all ; ’ but my eyes closed, 
and I don’t remember dreaming anything pretty — only a lot of 
confused rubbish that was not worth dreaming about at all. 
Now wliat did I dream ? — Ohl ” she stopped suddenly, with a 
frightened look. 

“ Something terrible ? ” 

“ I dreamt that I lost a tooth.” 

Tom burst into a hearty laugh, but Lady Betty looked grave. 

“ You little goose,” he cried, “ are you vexed because you did 
not dream of cupids and roses P ” 

“No, but do you know what that signifies P” 

“ Not in the least, unless it be that dreams going by con- 
traries, you will shortly cut your wisdom tooth, sweet.” 

“ Don’t laugh, Tom ; I believe in dreams.” 

“So do 1, when they are pleasantly realised. And what is . 
the significance of yours ? * 

“ I shall lose a friend.” 

“ Why that may be true enough, for you will lose me for a 
whole day.” 

“ Where are you going, dear ? ” she asked with anxiety. 

Tom told briefly the arrangement he had made with Gerard 
to seek Barnabas. 

“ You are going to find the man who tried to take your life ! ” 
she exclaimed. “ Oh, if you love me, dear, don’t leave me.” 

She was so earnest that Tom became grave. Women and 
men with greater wisdom than Lady Betty believed at that 
time in signs and omens, and however absurd they may have 
appeared to Tom, he saw nothing ridiculous in the fear of his 
sweetheart for his safety. 

“ Dear love,” said he, “ we are nowhere safe from accident ; 
and if there be truth in omens, ’tis well to take their lightest 
interpretation. What will the loss be then but our separation 
for a day P* 

“ Are you obliged to go, dear P ” Lady Betty asked, the sub- 
ject not being one for argument. 


i!80 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


“ Be sure ’tis necessity that takes me away from you, love.” 

“ There is danger — will you not stay with me if I ask you P * 

“ Yes. I will do anything you bid me do ; but I do not think 
Lady Betty will ask her husband to forego a duty for the sake 
of safety.” 

** Kiss me, love, and forgive me forgetting your honour. Dc 
what you will, brave darling, and heed me not. I am nothing 

but a little woman — with a woman’s love and fear 

There! now I will not say another word to hinder your purpose.’ 


CHAPTER LVIII. 

A STURDY ROGUE. 

“ Jerry,” said Doctor Blandly, when the old servant brought 
him his customary tankard at breakfast, “ you will see that the 
two saddle horses are ready at 1 The Bell’ by half-past ten.” 

“ I’ll go round if you please, Sir, and give the hostler a good 
talking to at once.” 

“ Do ; then take this letter to Mr. Baxter ; and afterwards 
find the constable, and tell him to be here about ten o’clock.” 

Jerry departed at once to execute these commissions, and 
Doctor Blandly explained the little comedy that would pro- 
bably be played before Tom and Gerard left. 

As ten o’clock struck, Barney O’Crewe rang the bell, and 
thoughtfully stroking his scr.ubby chin, went over for the last 
time those delicate points which would come under discussion 
in the forthcoming interview with Doctor Blandly. 

“ The top o’ the mornun to you, squoire,” he said as Jerry 
opened the gate and admitted him. “ Is the Doctlior widin, if 
ye plase P ” 

“I shouldn't let you in if he wasn’t,” answered Jerry, fasten- 
ing the gate. 

“ I’m deloighted to foind ye as agraable and complaisint as 
usual; an’ if I can putt a word in for yewid the master, I will, 
be sure, squoire.” 

Jerry made no reply, but led the way into the house, and 
opening the door of the breakfast-room, introduced the pedlar. 

The breakfast things were still upon the table. Doctor 
Blandly sat at the head, with Tom on one side of him and the 
Reverend John Baxter on the other. Lady Betty seated beside 
Tom, rested her right hand lightly upon the table, her left, 
lost to sight, was locked in his ; opposite to her, and with his 
back towards the door, sat Gerard. 


A STURDY ROGUE. 


281 


“ Me sarvice to ye, me lady, and to you, Docthcr Blandly, 
and to your riverince, and likewoise to you, gentlemen,” said 
the pedlar, with a bow to each. “ It seems that the owle man 
has played an onsamely trick upon me, Docthor, to bring me 
here, where ye sit surrounded by the quality on both sides of ye.” 

“ No ; he obeyed my orders. We are all friends of Mr. Tal- 
bot,” Doctor Blandly replied, with a motion of his hand to- 
wards Tom. 

“ Mr. Gerard, Sor, I salutes ye wid all the respect in the 
world.” The pedlar bowed again to Tom. “ Shure I knowed 
ye the vary moment I clapped eyes on ye, for yer the vary 
image of your swate mother — the saints in heaven bless her 
sowl.” 

“ I have given Mr. Talbot your narrative of Saturday, but in 
case I have omitted any particular, it will be well for you to 
repeat what you told me for our general satisfaction,” said 
Doctor Blandly. 

“ And I should be proud to do that same, Docthor ; but ye 
must know I’ve a tremenjoua objaction to spaking in public. 
I can contrive to spake in private ; but I’m so modest and 
bashful that I could niver get out a word before such a collec- 
tion of the quality.” 

‘’I don’t ask you to say anything which will affect your 
negotiation with Mr. Gerard ; all that I desire is that you will 
repeat the statement you made relative to the attack upon Mr. 
Thomas Talbot — which I understood you to say you had sworn 
before a magistrate.” 

u Sure it’s thrue, every word of it, and I’ve sworn it upon 
the Horly Bible before the magistrate, as ye say, though for 
the loife of me I don’t remember the name of ’urn at this 
minute.” 

“ That is what I wish you to state now. Afterwards, if Mr. 
Talbot pleases, you can privately make terms for any further 
revelations that are necessary.” 

“ Doctor Blandly expresses my wish,” said Tom. “ Before I 
enter into any negotiation with you I must have particulars of 
the murder committed by Slink.” 

“ Y’are roight, dear Mr. Gerard, y’are quite roight to take 
your precautions, for y’are not supposed to know but what I’m 
the greatest scoundrel goun. And sure if ’tis only to tell you 
all about the murtherin varmint, Slink, I can overcome my 
nat’ral hesitation.” The pedlar cleared his throat, and looking 
at the good things upon the table with a longing eye, said : 
“ Docthor, will ye give me a taste o’ wather to give me courage^ 
and moisten my lips ? ” 


232 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


“ You may take some water, there is a glass and the bottle.” 

With a wry face O’Crewe poured out about a spoonful of 
water in the glass, which he raised to his lips and set down 
again with the remark, that it was a “ moighty onpleasant 
flavour ” the water had in these parts ; and then with all the 
effrontery of a Newgate pleader, he repeated in substance the 
story he had told to Doctor Blandly, but with many rhetorical 
flourishes and eloquent additions, for the old man was vain of 
his ability, and only too proud to make a display before a cul- 
tivated audience. He addressed himself chiefly to Tom, under 
the impression that he was Gerard, but pathetic passages he 
delivered looking at Lady Betty, as when he described the 
“ swate smoile that dwelt on the young murthered gintleman’s 
face as he looked up to the blessed stars above ’um, and when, 
in conclusion, he called upon the saints in Heaven to witness 
that he had no object but to prove the holy truth, he directed 
his glance to the Reverend John Baxter. 

"Perhaps we can prove the truth without troubling the 
saints,” said Doctor Blandly, drily, as he touched the bell. 

0‘Crewe opened his eyes in astonishment. Jerry entered. 

“ Tell the constable to bring the young man here,” said Doc- 
tor Blandly. 

The constable presently appeared leading Slink by the arm. 

“ Do you know who that is P ” asked Doctor Blandly. 

" Do I know who it is ? I should think I did ! Sorra a one 
better. ’Tis the murtherin varmint, Slink himself, wid just 
the same bloodthirsty expression in the face of ’um he had 
when I see ’um a dragging that swate blessed Misther Tom into 
the cow Id, cowld river ! ” 

Slink grinned from ear to ear. 

" Don’t laugh, ye mui-therm’ villain, ve’ll not escape the 
vingeance of the law. I know ye at once, though I nivir saw 
yer face but twoice in my loife.” 

“ You have a good memory for features,” said Doctor Blandly ; 
"do you remember the face of Mr. Thomas Talbot ? ” 

“ Nothun better ; I shall never forget the expression of ’um 
to my dyun day. He was not like you, Mr. Gerard, for ye’ve 
got the faitures of your mother, and Mr. Tom tuk afther the 
owld admiral.” 

At this assertion Slink was attacked with such a fit of laughter 
that he had to bend his body at a right angle with his legs, 
and stamp his feet before he could fetch breath. In a less 
demonstrative fashion the rest of the company seemed also 
amused. 

“ Sor I ” exclaimed O’Crewe, addressing Doctor Blandly, and 


FAB, EWELL. 


283 


drawing himself up with an air of offended dignity, “ wad ye 
be koind enough to explain the manin’ o’ that dirty black- 
gyard’s behavior ? ” 

“ The explanation is this,” said Tom, “ my name is Thomas 
Talbot.” 

“ Mr. Thomas ! and not dead at all ? Thank the powers ! ” 
said O’Crewe, with ready wit. “ I’m rejoiced to see youlookun 
so well, Sor, an’ it plases me moightily to foind that I’ve been 
makun a mistake all the while.” 

“ But it doesn't please me,” cried the Doctor ; “ and if you 
have sworn a lie you shall be punished for your perjury.” 

“ Sure, and that was a mistake too, Docthor dear. D’ye 
think I’d swear the life away of a charmun young innocint. 
country lad ? divil a bit ! I never swored, nothun at all, at all.” 
As he spoke the pedlar edged away from the constable towards 
the door. 

“ Wait,” said the Reverend John Baxter ; “ there’s one thing 
that there is no mistake about. You have tried to impose on 
us with a false and scandalous assertion.” 

“ Sure, your riverence, that was the greatest mistake of all.” 

“ And one that you shall have the opportunity of repenting. 
Constable, you wiil take this man and lock up his feet in the 
stocks until sundown. Give him as much water as he can 
drink, and no more bread than he can pay for — off with him 
for a sturdy rogue.” 


CHAPTER LIX. 

FAREWELL. 

Changing horses twice upon the road, Tom and Gerard reached. 
Talbot Hall about five o’clock in the afternoon. Old Blake 
came to the gate. 

“ He’s about, Sir — lie’s about,” he said, in a low voice. “ He 
was seen yesterday, and I catclied sight of him again this morn - 
ing. Shall I fetch my gun and come up to the house with 
you ? ” 

Tom laughed. “Do you think we need protection against a 
poor lame devil such as he P Open the gate, and come up to 
us in half-an-liour, and not before.” 

Blake shook his head, and reluctantly opened the gate for 
the two gentlemen to pass. 

“ Go on, Gerard ; I will overtake you in a couple of minutes, 
ft lias just struck me that Slink’s sweetheart is dying to knot- 


284 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS, 


his fate,” Tom said, pulling up when they were half-dozen 
yards from the lodge. He turned his horse and walked back, 
while Gerard, waiting for him, cast his eyes over the wide 
spread of lawn, and along the terrace before the house. Not a 
living thing was to be seen. 

Half-way up the long drive there was on either side a clump 
of evergreens ; they were the only places of concealment be- 
tween the lodge and the house. As he was looking at them, 
a rabbit hopped out from the clump on the right-hand side into 
the gravelled path, and standing on his hindlegs with his ears 
cocked, regarded him for a moment, then leisurely hopped over 
towards the left-hand clump. Just as it reached the turf, it 
stopped suddenly, and then with a sharp turn from the ever- 
greens, it flew off towards the woods as fast as it could lay its 
heels to the ground. Why, if it were frightened, did it not 
seek shelter in the thickly-planted covert ? Gerard asking 
himself the question, shifted his horse from the right to the 
left-hand side of the path, as Tom with a nod to the girl he 
had been making happy with a few kind words, trotted away 
from the lodge, and came to his brother’s side. 

“ What do you think of the Hall, Gerard ? ” 

“ ’ Tis a fine building.” 

“ One wing is closed altogether ; the other needs repair. A 
few rooms in the centre are the only really habitable ones at 
present. But we will alter all that. We will go over the 
whole place and arrange together what changes will be neces- 
sary to make it a pleasant home. What are you looking at, 
Gerard?” 

“ This is a noble lawn, Tom.” 

“ Oh, ’tis the lawn you are looking at. I thought you had 
caught sight of game in the covert. There are deer in the 
park, and when they come upon the lawn, they add to the 
prettiness of the picture ; but a sweet wife on the terrace, and 
children stretching their pretty arms out to welcome us, are 
wanting to make it perfect ” 

“ May nothing be wanting to complete your happiness.” 

“Nor vours, Gerard. I see nothing of that unhappy man, 
do you ? h 

“ Nothing,” said Gerard. 

They had passed the clumps, Gerard riding between that on 
the left and Tom, and were now close at the house. They dis- 
mounted, and having hitched their reins upon the iron scroll- 
work at the foot of the terrace steps, they entered the house 
by the open door. 

Tom threw open the door of the dining-room. It was empty ; 


FAREWELL. 


285 


upon the table were scraps of broken food, an overturned 
pitcher, and a dirty glass half full of stale ale. They exam- 
ined room after room, and finding no one, went out beyond the 
shrubberies into the stables j they also were deserted. Here 
they were joined by Blake. 

“ Where are the horses P ” asked Tom. 

“ I’ve had ’em removed, Sir,” replied the steward. For you 
see, Sir, this Mr. — Mr. Crewe, I think he’s called, lost his’n, 
and I thought he might take a fancy to breaking a lock, and 
taking one of yourn, Sir. Lord, Sir, ’taint no good looking 
about for him in there. He’s as scary as a hunted fox. 
When I see him this morning he was eating food a-standing in 
the hall-doorway, to make sure he shouldn’t be trapped — he’s 
as wild as a Bedlamite. This was the stall where he kep’ his 
horse, and that his saddle.” 

“Come into the house, Gerard. Blake, send something to 
eat and drink up to my room. What can you give us ? ” 

Discussing the question of refreshment, Tom and the steward 
walked out of the stable. Gerard following them, stepped 
aside quickly to the hanging saddle and put his hand into the 
holsters : they were empty. 

The room chosen by Tom for his use was above the entrance, 
and looked down upon the terrace. They sat near the window 
and ate, and when the meal was finished they walked round the 
Hall and along the terrace until the light faded, then they 
returned to the chamber, having seen nothing of Barnabas. 
Rain was beginning to fall again. 

“ Gerard, we must put an end to that poor wretch’s sufferings 
to-morrow. It is terrible to think of him wandering about half- 
starved in this atrocious weather, without shelter or a single 
comfort in the world. If he is wild with fear, as Blake makes 
out he is, we are not likely to get within speaking distance of 
him unless we take measures for catching him. That will not 
be a difficult task with the servants to help us, as he is lame ; 
but one has a natural repugnance to hunting a human creature 
as one would a beast.” 

“ True ; yet, as you say, he must not be suffered to exist in 
his present manner, and if we cannot find a better method 
before the morning, that must be adopted. 

“ I am anxious on your account, as well as his. ’Tis preying 
on your mind, Gerard, to an extreme. I understand how you 
must feel upon the subject, but I confess your depression 
astonishes me. You have known him long for a scoundrel, and 
thought him your brother. ’Tis some satisfaction to know that 
his father was not yours.” 


286 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


“ I feel that, Tom ; and admit that the balance of fortune haa 
lately turned in my favour.” 

“Then why shouldn’t you be of better cheer P The future is 
not unpleasant to you : we shall share everything, and you will 
find me eager to catch your wishes and fall in with them.” 

“ I know, I know,” Gerard said, pressing the hand his brother 
held out to him. 

“You have no secret grief, hey, brother P I never knew any- 
one so utterly dejected, except myself, when I fancied that my 
mistress despised me. You have not lost a sweetheart, have 
you?” 

“ A sweetheart,” Gerard said, with a dry laugh. “ Did you 
ever hear of me loving a woman, do you think a woman could 
love me, an ex-gamester, brother to a murdering villain, a man 
who succeeds at fleecing fools at cards and fails in the first 
honest work to which he set his hand ? The most that an angel 
can do is to pity me.” 

“’Tis but the thought of to-day, Gerard. A year — six 
months — aye, less than that, of companionship with pleasant 
folks, will change your bitter reflections upon the past to sweet 
hopes of a future. I shall take my wife to Italy while the 
alterations are being made here, and you shall come with us, 
and if my sweet Betty’s lively happiness does not drive away 
your care, I will suffer you to build a cell and live in it like a 
hermit.” 

Gerard turned away in silence. 

“ Well, well, think what you will,” said Tom, “time shall 
show. Fill your glass, and when the bottle is empty we will ■ 
turn into bed. Will you share my room, or take the next ? ” 

“ I’ll take the next, for the sake of having my own sweet 
company to myself.” 

“ As you will, Gerard.” 

“ I’ll say good-night now. Is the library door unlocked P " 

“Yes.” 

“ I shall read for an hour. Good-night, Tom.” 

“God bless you, Gerard.” 


CHAPTER LX. 

IN THE LIBRARY. 

The library, like all the principal rooms in Talbot Hall, looked 
out upon the terrace. The shutters were unclosed, and the 


IN TIIE LIBRARY. 287 

heavy curtains looped up. The light of the candle lit by Gerard 
could be seen from the lawn. 

Gerard sat with his legs crossed and his hands clasped over 
his knee for full half-an-hour in thought ; then he rose, took the 
first book that his hand touched, and opening it in the middle, 
read. He raised his head and listened, catching a faint sound 
from the outside; but the swinging of a lantern and a heavy- 
regular tread growing distinct, he dropped his eyes again. The 
outer door was opened, and someone tapped at the library door. 

“ Come in,” he said. 

Blake entered, his collar up, a stream of water falling from 
his hat as he removed it. 

“ Beg your pardon, Sir, is Mr. Thomas here P ” he asked. 

“ No ; he is in the room upstairs.” 

“No light in the window, Sir.” 

“ Then he is asleep, or, at least, in bed.” 

“ Any orders for the morning, Sir P ” 

u Tell one of the stable lads to have a horse ready as soon aa 
it is light.” 

“ Right, Sir. The lad shall sleep in the stable, and when you 
want the horse — if you’ll just give him a call — his name’s 
Jacob, Sir.” 

“ Very well. Good-night.” 

“ Beg your pardon, Sir, shall I show you how to fasten tho 
front door p ” 

“ No, I understand that.” 

u That’s everything, Sir. I only mentioned it because I see 
something like a figure round the shrubbery in the dusk, and, 

Gerard nodded, and returning to his book, closed further 
discussion. 

The retreating step of the old steward, and subsequently the 
heavy step of a stable-help, were the only sounds that broke 
the silence for a couple of hours ; during that time Gerard read 
page after page of the book on his knee listlessly. He read 
because he could not sleep and did not want to think. 

The wind had risen, and blew the rain in gusty violence 
against the windows, now in a sharp, momentary dash, and 
again in a long, pattering volley ; but the casements were well 
secured, and the lights burnt steadily by Gerard’s side. After 
a long pelting of heavy drops against the glass, the wind 
turned, and there was a lull in the stormy brunt. In this 
momentary silence, a grating sound fell upon Gerard’s ear, and 
simultaneously the flame of the candles swept down the wax 
and leapt up, confusing the printed lines under his eye. Had 


288 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


the wind blown open the front door ? It was hardly possible; 
the steward had closed it carefully, and tried it afterwards with 
his knee. 

Yet clearly the wind had entered by some opening- ; Gerard 
felt the damp chill of it upon his face. He raised his eyes from 
the page to the library door. He could not see it distinctly for 
the light that fell between. He moved the candelabra further 
back, then replaced his hand upon the book, keeping his eyes 
upon the door-latch, and moving not a muscle. Presently he 
saw the latch rise and slowly descend as the door moved beyond 
the catch. Little by little the door moved forward upon its 
hinges, and the opening gradually yawned. Suddenly it flew 
back, and in the uncertain light Gerard distinguished Barnabas 
bringing up a pistol to the level of his head. 

Gerard sat as motionless as a statue. He might have been 
dead already, but for the reflected light in his eyes, and that 
he spoke : 

“ Barnabas,” he said. 

Barnabas lowered his pistol, and looking quickly round the 
room, his finger still upon the trigger, asked hoarsely: 

“ Where is he ? ” 

u Asleep.” 

“ You spoke just in time. Curse the light, I cannot see. Is 
he hiding here ? Mark me, ’twill be your fault if I am a 
fratricide, for by God I’ll shoot you if he lays a finger upon me 
in treachery ! ” 

He spoke, looking round the room wildly, and evidently as a 
warning to Tom if he were in concealment. 

“ He is not here. If you don’t want to wake him, shut the 
door and speak lower.” 

“ Shut the door ! A likely thing, I’m not trapped yet. 
Speak low I What do I want to say to you? Nothing. 
What I have to say to him this will tell ! ” He made a move- 
ment with the heavy pistol. 

“ What good will it do you to shoot him ? Are you 
mad?” 

“ Nearly. I have been quite. And it was he drove me out 
of my senses coming before me and standing there in the door- 
way when I thought he was dead. A fine joke for him, but 
one that will cost him dear. Let him come, I don’t fear him 
now. The rain and pain, and hunger and thirst have cured me. 
I’ve another friend in my pocket, and standing here, in this 
corner, I fear none of you — my father, Slink, him, you, and all 
that are plotting to do for me.” 

He put himself in the corner by the door, and lugged out the 


IN THE LIBRARY. 280 

second pistol from his pocket, looking now in the dark behind 
him, now towards Gerard and the room. 

Gerard, becoming more used to the dim light, could mark the 
appearance of his half-brother. His dress was torn with briars. 
A great rent in his sleeve exposed his bare forearm and elbow ; 
the rain beating upon his face showed it a ghastly white where 
it was not covered with a thick, scrubby beard; he had lost 
his hat, and his hair hung matted about his head, dripping with 
rain. 

“ If you are not mad, you are a fool,” said Gerard. “ If we 
sought to give you up to the law should we come unarmed to 
do the work of a constable ? Tom Talbot has come here to 
offer you money and an escape from the country.” 

“ I should be mad or a fool indeed to believe that I Do you 
think I or anyone else would give money and help to a man 
who has done his utmost to murder me ? And that’s what you 
would have me believe : well, then my answer is you are a 
liar.” 

“ Think of what I have said, and come again to me in an 
hour. JBy that time you will see the folly of supposing that 
we are here with treacherous intentions.” 

“ Oh, I know your sneaking gentlemanly ways. You who 
can rob, and cheat, swindle and thieve a rich living with no 
tools but a pack of cards and a dice-box, have a quicker and 
surer means of cheating a low rogue like me than I can readily 
guess at. I know why the doors have been left open, and food 
put upon the table — to tempt me and trap me like a rat in a 
cage. I said to myself — these things are not set here for no- 
thing, in a day or two my lord Tom with a sneaking hound or 
two at his heels will come to play out the farce to a conclusion. 
I’ve been waiting for him, and I would have shot him dead 
this afternoon, for his white coat was a sure mark, but that 
you, plague you, got between him and me.” 

“ And if you had shot him — what then P ” 

“What then — the gallows, a brave face, the cheers of the 
mob, and a sudden death. Isn’t that a better end than rotting 
away year by year in a gaol.” 

“ No one wishes to serve you so.” 

“ You liar ! ” Barnabas said, grating his teeth. " Fve a mind 
to put a bullet in your pretty body, you sneaking, gentlemanly 
thief.” He trembled with envious hate, and half raised his 
pistol. 

“ Go out and reflect on what I have said ; I shall sit here 
until the morning, and will listen to any terms you like to make. 
But I warn you that you will have no longer than this night 

19 


990 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


to consider. To-morrow morning we shall name our terms and 
oblige you to to accept them.” 

“Not while I can lift a pistol. I swear I will hang for the 
man who has made my life hell to me, and for once I will keep 
my oath.” 

At this moment there was a movement above, and Barnabas 
looked into the darkness with palpable fear. He was like a 
beast at bay, for whom a sound has more terror than a blow. 
He was a coward even in his desperation. 

Tom’s voice above called, “ Gerard ! ” 

In a moment Barnabas dashed from his corner, and fled out 
into the darkness. Gerard heard him stumbling down the 
terrace steps. 

" Gerard,” Tom called again. 

Gerard made no reply. Tom, too drowsy to make inquiries 
into the noise that had disturbed him, turned upon his side to 
sleep and dream. Gerard sat and watched. 

And the night wore slowly on. 


CHAPTER LXI. 

“GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN THAN THIS, THAT A MAN 
LAY DOWN HIS LIFE FOB HIS FRIENDS.” 

Gerard paced up and down the library. He could fix his 
attention upon the book no longer. From time to time he 
walked to the window and looked out into the obscurity ; once 
he went out to the door in the entrance-hall, peering to the 
right and left along the terrace. He could see nothing. He 
had but slight hope of Barnabas returning, and when at length 
the outline of the distant woods became,vaguely visible, he felt 
convinced that the resolution Barnabas had made was unalter- 
able. He would surely take Tom’s life. 

He stood for a few minutes with his hand resting on tha 
table, looking round the room, and he pictured the future. 
The room glowing with the light of burning logs in the wide 
chimney ; his brother Tom seated there with Lady Betty, his 
sweet wife, beside him ; Doctor Blandly an honoured guest 
sharing their happiness and content, and little children playing 
at their mother’s feet. There was no vacant chair placed for 
an expected friend in the picture. With a sigh he turned 
away and walked to the end of the room, where in the evening 
they had thrown down their hats and coats. 


" GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN,’' ETC. 


291 


He took up Tom's light drab riding-coat and drew it on. It 
was large for him — so much the better for his purpose. When 
he turned up the collar and buttoned it over it covered the 
lower half of his face. Then he put on his hat, drawing it 
down over his eyes. Thus dressed, even in the light he might 
hav-e been mistaken for his brother Tom. 

He paused in walking towards the door, asking himself if he 
should write a word to leave behind him — a message to her — 
to him — a testimony of the love in his heart? No, 'twould 
but add to their sorrow if they knew him for something better 
than an unfortunate man. The family Bible was in his hand ; 
he might have left it open upon the table with the page turned 
down at this line: “ Greater love hath ‘no man than this, that 
a man lay down his life for his friends.’' Should he do so to 
tell how much he loved ? No, ’twould be les3 painful to attri- 
bute his end to unfortunate carelessness than heroic design. 

He went out of the Hall leaving no message ; breathing only 
a prayer for the happiness of those who should live there after 
he was gone. 

The wind had abated and the rain ceased to fall heavily ; 
but over the dark grey sky black clouds hurried quickly, huge 
and formless. The terrace was clear, and the long drive could 
be seen for some yards before it was lost in the vapoury gloom. 

Gerard walked round slowly by the shrubbery seeing no one, 
and coming to the stable he called “Jacob.” 

The stable lad answered readily, and having struck a light 
with the flint, quickly put a saddle on Tom’s horse. Suddenly 
in passing Gerard he stopped : 

“ I ax your pardon, Sir,” said he, “but I’ve gone and saddled 
the wrong mare ; I thought you was Master Thomas by the 
coat.” 

“No matter, the mare will do. Lead her out.” 

The mare was led out, and Gerard sprang into the saddle. 

“You can put the light out and goto sleep again, Jacob. 
Take this.” 

“Thankye, Sir, thankye kindly,” said the lad, spitting on the 
crown Gerard had put in his hand. For him the day was 
beginning well. 

Gerard walked liis horse past the shrubbery and into the 
drive. It was growing light rapidly. After walking down 
the broad path a hundred yards, Gerard could discern the out- 
lines of the two evergreen clumps standing by the path. 

“All that heaven gives to happy mortals be theirs — my 
brother and his wife,” he said to himself. “ He will grow 
stout and florid, Tom; with a love for creature comforts a:d 


292 


LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. 


healthy sports. Kind to his fellows, loving his children better 
than his life, and loving his wife dearer than all. An honest, 
healthy, English country gentleman. And she will reign like 
a queen in his house, beautiful and fair, making all love hei 
by her simple fidelity and gentleness. God bless theml I 
have no other wish.” 

Paug-ker ! 

With the report came a flash of light from amidst the ever- 
greens, and a bullet sped straight to the heart of Gerard. His 
last wish was uttered ; his sorrows done ; his end come. 

The mare started forward, jerking the dead body from the 
saddle. 

“ There shall be no mistake this time,” muttered Barnabas, 
throwing aside the used pistol and drawing another from his 
pocket as he scrambled through the evergreens. 

With his arms spread out like a cross, Gerard lay, with his 
face upwards to the light. As Barnabas recognised his half< 
brother, his soul, callous as it was, shrunk within him. 

His first idea was of the consequences. That the mob would 
not applaud as he looked down on the thousand faces from the 
scaffold — that they would drag him from the tumbril, and tear 
him limb from limb, was the thought that presented itself to 
his mind. Not a regret, nor the faintest tinge of remorse, 
touched him; only fear. And already he heard voices and 
approaching feet. 

He looked round like a hunted brute, closed his eyes, and 
put the muzzle of his pistol slowly to his mouth ; then, with 
his thumb, he pressed the trigger. 

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A House of Tears. 


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lutely impossible to lay it down without mastering all the details. The nature of 
its fascination is similar to that exercised on a bird by a snake. . . . When 
we say that it is not a book for Indiscriminate feminine reading, we must not be 
accused of aDy desire to detract from its cleverness or its purity.”— Vanity Fair. 

“ There can be no doubt that ‘ A House of Tears ’ is a very extraordinary and 
original story.”— London Figaro. 

‘•Mournfully mysterious is ‘A House of Tears’— truly a story to make one's 
flesh creep.”— Lady's Pictorial. 

“ I had to take nips of brandy to keep up my courage while I was reading * A 
House of Tears.’” 

“There is no leaving off until it is finished, so absorbing is the thread of the 
narrative. "—England. 

“The writer shows much ingenuity in his strange conception, and consider- 
able skill in the unfolding of the mysteries which beset the morbid Dr. Emanuel.” 

—The Academy. 

“ The plot is good, the characters are admirably portrayed, and there are 
many exceedingly dramatic situations.”— John Bull. 

“Well written, original, and sufficiently sensational to satisfy even a reader 
who has breakfasted on Boisgobey, and supped off Sue.”— St. Stephen's Review. 

“ The story is weird, even gruesome, and in parts almost terrible ; but the idea 
is exceedingly original, and the style is excellent— terse, straightforward, and 
matter-of-fact, stories of the horrible imaginative should be.” 

— The Liverpool Post. 

“This remarkable story. The book is written with undoubted ability, and 
incidents of the most exciting kind follow each other in rapid succession, fas- 
cinating the attention from the first to last page.” — Bristol Observer. 

“ A clear, forcible, simple style, and a power of condensed and plausible narra- 
tion are hi3 .''—Nation (Dublin). 


1 Yol., 12mo, Lovell’s Library, No. 1126, - - - price 20 cts. 


JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 


14 and 16 Vesey St., New York 



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HOSTETTER’S 

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HAS FOR 35 YEARS BEEN 

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AS A REMEDY FOR 

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The treatment of many thousands of 
cases of those chronic weaknesses and 
distressing 1 ailments peculiar to females, 
at the Invalids’ Hotel and Surgical In- 
stitute, Buffalo, N. Y., has afforded a 
vast experience in nicely adapting- and 
thoroughly testing remedies for the 
cure of woman’s peculiar maladies. 

Dr. Pierce’s Favorite Prescrip- 
tion is the outgrowth, or result, of this 
great and valuable experience. Thou- 
sands of testimonials received from pa- 
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tested it in the more aggravated and 
obstinate cases which had baffled their 
skill, prove it to be the most wonderful 
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most perfect Specific for woman’s 
peculiar ailments. 

As a powerful, invigorating 

tonic it imparts strength to the whole 
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keepers, nursing mothers, and feeble 
women generally, Dr. Pierce’s Favorite 
Prescription is the greatest earthly boon, 
being unequalled as an appetizing cor- 
dial and restorative tonic. It promotes 
digestion and assimilation of food, cures 
nausea, weakness of stomach, indiges- 
tion, bloating and eructations of gas. 

As a soothing and strengthen- 
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Is unequalled and is invaluable in allay- 
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irritability, exhaustion, prostration, hys- 
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functional and organic disease of the 
womb. It induces refreshing sleep and 
relieves mental anxiety and despond- 
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Dr. Pierce’s Favorite Prescrip- 
tion is a legitimate medicine, 
carefully compounded by an experienc- 
ed and skillful physician, and adapted 
to woman’s delicate organization. It is 
purely vegetable iu its composition and 


perfectly harmless In Its effects In any 

.condition of the system. 

“Favorite Prescription” is a 
positive cure for the most compli- 
cated and obstinate cases of leucorrhea, 
or “ whites,” excessive flowing at month- 
ly periods, painful menstruation, unnat- 
ural suppressions, prolapsus or falling 
of the womb, weak btek, “female weak- 
ness,” anteversion, retroversion, bearing- 
down sensations, chronic congestion, in- 
flammation and ulceration of the womb, 
inflammation, pain and tenderness in 
ovaries, accompanied with internal heat. 

In pregnancy, “Favorite Prescrip- 
tion” is a “ mother’s cordial,” relieving 
nausea, weakness of stomach and other 
distressing symptom*} common to that 
condition. If its use is kept up in the 
latter months of gestation, it so prepares 
the system for delivery as to greatly 
lessen, and many times almost entirely 
do away with the suilerings of that try- 
ing ordeal. 

“ Favorite Prescription,” wher» 

taken in connection with the use of 
Dr. Pierce’s Golden Medical Discovery, 
and small laxative doses of Dr. Pierce’s 
Purgative Pellets (Little Liver Pills), 
cures Liver, Kidney and Bladder dig. 
cases. Their combined use also removes 
blood taints, and abolishes cancerous 
and scrofulous humors from the system. 

Treating tlie Wrong Disease.— 
Many times women call on their family 
physicians, suffering, as they imagine, 
one from dyspepsia, another from heart 
disease, another from liver or kidney 
disease, another from nervous exhaus- 
tion or prostration, another with pain 
here or there, and in this way they all 
present alike to themselves and their 
easy-going and indifferent, or over-busy 
doctor, separate and distinct diseases, 
for which he prescribes his pills and 
potions, assuming them to be such, 
when, in reality, they are all only symp- 
toms caused by some womb disorder. 
The physician, ignorant of the cause of 
suffering, encourages his practice until 
large bills arc made. The suffering pa- 
tient gets no better, but probably worse 
by reason of the delay, wrong treatment 
and consequent complications. A prop- 
er medicine, like Dr. Pierce’s Favorite 
Prescription, directed to the cause would 
have entirely removed the disease, there- 
by dispelling all those distressing symp- 
toms, and instituting comfort instead of 
prolonged misery. 

66 Favorite Prescription” is the 
only medicine for women sold, by drug- 
gists, under a positive guarantee, 
from the manufacturers, that it will 
give satisfaction in every case, or money 
will bo refunded. This guarantee has 
been printed on the bottle-wrapper, and 
faithfully carried out for many years. 
Fargo bottles (100 doses) $1.00, or 
six bottles for $5.00. 

Send ten cents in stamps for Dr. 
Pierce’s large, illustrated Treatise (160 
pages) on Diseases of Women. Address, 
World’s Dispensary Medical Association, 
£10, etw maix street, buffalo , a. r. 



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Warerooms: STELNWAY HAH, Nos. 107, 109 & 111 East 14th St, 

STEIN WAY & SONS, New York 





























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